


anachronism

by chellethewriter



Series: the catradora brain rot collection [5]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: (fake) major character death, Adora and Catra are already married in this, Adora continues to be self-destructive but...worse, Angella Rescue Attempt, Angst, Blood and Injury, Building up some magic lore here, Canon Compliant, Dark Magic, Established Relationship, F/F, Following tags contain spoilers, Future Fic, Grief, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Content, Portal shenanigans, Post-Canon, Swearing, Time Travel, a lot more plot than u think, contains art and some voice acting!, one scene of pretty intense violence in chapter 10, these wives are YEARNING as they fight folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 100,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellethewriter/pseuds/chellethewriter
Summary: Catra clenches her fists. She won’t let it happen. She won’t endanger their future. “We can’t change anything. We’ll just have to wait, and do everything the same way we did before.”Adora grabs Catra’s shoulders. Her grip is so tight, it’s nearly painful. “But do you realize what that means for us? Playing along. Letting things go the exact same way as before–”Catra’s expression darkens. “I know,” she says, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. “You’ll have to leave. We’ll have to be enemies again.”***Years after defeating Horde Prime, Catra and Adora inexplicably wake up in the past—on the day that Adora first found the sword. If they're going to make it back to the present, they'll have to relive their past from start to finish, pretending to be enemies despite being in love. Despite being married. Despite knowing exactly how the story ends.But it's not easy, waging war against the person you love most.(now read the sequel,immemorial)!
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: the catradora brain rot collection [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804756
Comments: 1108
Kudos: 2938
Collections: Shera





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> one day i randomly thought "what if catra and adora had to relive everything despite knowing that they end up together" and yup this agonizing fic was born. It will be fluffy but OH SO PAINFUL. Chapters will be updated once a week on Saturdays. 
> 
> despite appearances, this fic will have more plot than just "reliving every single moment of the series," I promise. I'll add more tags as things develop. So far I'm thinking this will have 12-13 chapters, but it may end up longer or shorter. 
> 
> Anyway, Adora and Catra are probably around 25 or so when they get sent back in time? And like...literally married. Enjoy!

Adora slides her fingers across the mattress, her shoulders trembling. She can’t imagine how her bedroom suddenly grew so cold. Perhaps Catra opened a window sometime yesterday and forgot to close it before bed? 

So she reaches now, for Catra—knowing that Catra’s body will be warm, even if the air around her isn’t. She doesn’t understand how they’ve pulled so completely apart from each other in sleep. Usually, Adora wakes with her face buried in Catra’s neck, or her arms slung tightly around Catra’s torso. But somehow they’re not so much as touching now. 

She reaches and reaches. Reaches until her fingers drop off the mattress entirely, falling onto...something else. Something cool and rock-solid beneath her fingers. 

Metal? But that doesn’t make sense. Their bed is raised off the ground. And Catra is supposed to be next to her—

And that’s when she recognizes the dull sounds ringing in her ears. The clanging of distant machinery. The coughs and sniffles echoing all around her. 

Adora’s eyes fly open. 

And when her vision settles on the surrounding room, Adora can barely resist the urge to scream. 

All around her are concrete floors and blinking green lights. Bodies, piled on top of another in metal bunks. No—wait. Not bunks. Barracks. The very barracks that Adora grew up in. 

Somehow, Adora is back in the Fright Zone. 

The Fright Zone...which no longer exists. Not as it once did. It was entirely abandoned by the time she banished Horde Prime. And after that, she used the Heart of Etheria’s magic to cover these old buildings in greenery and flowers. 

But this room that Adora currently lies in—it looks the same as before. All harsh metal and concrete and machinery. But that...that _can’t_ be right. None of this can be real—

She glances downward. There’s a form at the end of the bed. A body. She remembers feeling it there, in her sleep. The warmth pressed against her feet. She assumed it was Melog at the time—the magical cat that Catra adopted from Krytis. But now Adora realizes that Melog is nowhere to be found. 

Catra. It’s Catra at the foot of Adora’s bed, sleeping soundly—just like she always used to do when they were kids. Curled into a small circle of limbs, tail flicking and ears twitching in her sleep. 

Adora would recognize that enormous mass of fluffy hair anywhere. Or the slow, relaxed rhythm of Catra’s breathing. A rhythm that Adora has nearly memorized, she has slept beside it for so long. 

But something is different. Or perhaps different than what Adora has grown accustomed to. 

There are tufts of gray hair beneath Catra’s ears. And obviously that doesn’t make sense—Catra hasn’t had those tufts in years. Adora can hardly remember when, exactly, Catra rid herself of them. Was it after the Battle of Bright Moon? Or after Catra opened the portal?

Though she supposes it doesn’t matter. Adora shouldn’t be here. She _can’t_ be here. 

She hopes that, in this case, the simplest explanation is actually the right one. So Adora pinches herself. Hard. 

Pain jolts through her skin, just as it’s supposed to. Which means that—despite how much she wishes otherwise—this is _not_ a dream. 

Adora exhales sharply. Why couldn’t it have just been a dream?

Adora anxiously searches her memory. How did she get here? What happened before Adora woke up here? 

Oddly enough, this isn’t the first time that Adora has inexplicably appeared in the Fright Zone. The last time, an interdimensional portal rearranged Adora’s whole life and interrupted the space-time continuum, sending her tumbling headfirst into a life where she had never defected from the Horde. 

So was that what happened this time too? Was history repeating itself?

She thinks and thinks. And somehow…she _does_ think that a portal was involved. But not like before. It wasn’t the reality-tearing portal that Catra once opened. It was a portal of Entrapta’s making, she thinks. A controlled experiment. One that Entrapta created on Glimmer’s request, and activated with Adora’s blessing.

Adora remembers standing in Entrapta’s lab, the searing heat of her transformation into She-Ra still fading from her skin. It’d been months since Adora last transformed. She’d had little reason to, what with the war being over and magic restored to the galaxy. 

But She-Ra wasn’t done. Not yet, anyway. Because Entrapta had finally discovered a way to rescue Queen Angella—Glimmer’s mother—from the portal she’d been trapped in so many years before. 

Glimmer, Adora, and Bow were ecstatic. 

Ecstatic, except…

There was a catch. There’s _always_ a catch. Between being She-Ra and accepting the Failsafe, Adora has learned that lesson well. 

She wasn't surprised when Entrapta announced the deadly little snag in her discovery: that someone would have to physically _enter_ the portal to retrieve Angella from that place between worlds. 

Adora happily volunteered herself to be that someone. She’d felt obligated to do it. Angella had sacrificed herself for Adora, after all. It was only fair that Adora was willing to sacrifice herself in turn if necessary.

She remembers Entrapta hitting the button—the one that allowed the new portal to burst into being. It broke through the air with a crackle and a boom, widening like a whirlpool at sea, eerie light emanated from its center. Its brilliance painted the entire room in a strange purple glow.

Adora stifled her fear at the sight of it. This portal was still frightening, yes. But it seemed far less ravenous and dangerous than the last one—the one that had nearly torn Etheria to pieces. This was smaller. Controlled. A contained circle of purple, rather than a growing, electrified wall of energy. 

Catra stood in front of Adora, mouth twisted in annoyance and worry, brows furrowed with concern. It was a look that Adora knew well. Catra always wore the same expression of disapproval whenever Adora risked herself like this. 

Catra carefully tied a length of rope around Adora’s waist. It was supposed to help her find her way back to the portal, once Adora slipped inside. Catra tied the knot once, twice, three times, then tugged it to ensure it was tight and stable. 

Her hands lingered at Adora’s waist, as if considering holding her there. “It should be me,” Catra muttered. “I mean—it was my fault. What happened.”

Adora remembers leaning down to capture Catra’s lips in a kiss. Brief, but gentle and sweet. Adora pulled away smiling, but Catra didn’t. She still looked afraid.

“I’ll be okay, Catra,” Adora assured her. “Entrapta is sure that it’ll work this time.”

“I’m not worried that you won’t make it through,” said Catra. “I’m worried that you won’t make it back. What if there’s something on the other side of that portal—something dangerous?”

Adora raised an eyebrow. “What? Do you know something I don’t?”

Catra shook her head fiercely. “No. At least, I don’t think so. I just…” She sighed and clutched her elbows. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Okay, everyone—we’ve got no time to waste!” announced Entrapta, hair flitting between various knobs and switches on the console in front of her. “The portal is consuming a significant amount of energy, so I can’t be sure how long I’ll be able to sustain it. Adora—you’d best go in, grab Angella, and come right back out. Sound good?”

Adora nodded. But Catra blanched at the words _“I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to sustain it_.” 

“Wait a minute—” Catra objected. “What if the portal closes while she’s still inside?”

Entrapta nodded like that was a contingency she’d considered. “We should have at least sixty minutes of continued portal stability. Of course, after that, it’s anyone’s guess. But so long as Adora finds Angella within that time, we should be golden.”

She shot Adora a thumbs up at those last few words: _We should be golden_. 

Adora inhaled deeply. She would force herself to believe those words. 

Glimmer was standing beside Entrapta, biting nervously at a thumbnail. “Adora,” she said. “You don’t have to do this. We can keep experimenting. Figure out a safer way. Or I’ll go—”

“Guys,” Adora said with determination—and finality. “If there really is anything dangerous on the other side of that portal, She-Ra is the best chance we have of defeating it.”

“But—” Catra interjected, but Adora held up a hand to silence her. 

“No buts. Angella has waited there for long enough. We need to act now.” 

Glimmer closed her eyes and nodded, as if willing herself to believe Adora’s words. But Catra didn’t look convinced—she grumbled something unintelligible but distinctly annoyed beneath her breath. 

Adora rolled her eyes and cupped a hand to Catra’s cheek. “Stop worrying, okay? I promise I’ll be back.”

Catra blinked, hard, in the face of Adora’s reassuring smile. Her voice cracked a bit when she said, “I hope you’re right.”

Adora kissed her again. Kissed her deeply—open-mouthed and slow, stroking her thumb across Catra’s cheeks all the while. Catra’s lips pressed so forcefully into hers that Adora worried that their mouths would bruise. 

Entrapta cleared her throat. “Hate to interrupt but—we _are_ operating under a time constraint.”

An unfortunate truth. And so, Adora released all but Catra’s hand. “Hold my rope for me, will you?”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Catra said, holding up the tail-end of the rope connected to Adora’s waist. “If you get anywhere close to those sixty minutes, I’ll be sure to yank your ass right back here.”

Adora’s smile only broadened. “Glad to hear it.”

Slowly, gently, she pulled her hand out of Catra’s grasp. Their fingers trailed lightly against each other as they slipped apart, with Catra’s nails gently ghosting over Adora’s palm. 

That was the last thing Adora felt, before stepping directly into Entrapta’s portal.

And now Adora is here, back in the Fright Zone. A Fright Zone that should no longer exist. 

Maybe it wasn’t a portal to the place between worlds at all. Maybe it was a portal to—

Adora freezes as Catra begins to stir at the foot of the bed. Scratching at her nose with a wrist, chest heaving with a sigh. 

Despite herself, something in Adora utterly melts at the sight of her. This version of Catra, so young and unhurt. Well...obviously, not _entirely_ unhurt. The Fright Zone always held plenty of hurt for them. For Catra in particular, even before the height of the war. 

But still. Catra looks so sweet like this. So _innocent._ The version of Catra that Adora has come to know—no one would dare call her that. Innocent. Not after everything. Not after the war or Horde Prime or the countless other struggles that preceded or followed.

This is a Catra from the past. A Catra with fewer freckles, fewer scars, fewer bad memories. A Catra who has not yet experienced the worst sufferings and mistakes of her life. 

Because that’s where Adora is now. The past. Somehow, the portal sent her there— _here_ —through time rather than space. It’s the only explanation.

But last time, when that other portal disrupted reality, Adora _lost_ memories. She awoke the same way people do in dreams. Accepting that blank emptiness that stood in place of yesterday. Only gradually did she sense that something was wrong—that the entire world was corrupted and collapsing in on itself. 

But right now? Right now, Adora remembers everything. The moments before this day, and the many after. And unlike last time, this world doesn’t necessarily feel twisted or wrong. It just feels...outdated. 

Catra stirs again, moaning softly. “Adora…?”

Adora watches silently as Catra sends an arm grasping behind her back. She squirms, repositioning herself—brow furrowed in confusion as she finds nothing beside her on the bed 

And then, finally, Catra’s blue and yellow eyes squint open. They find Adora immediately, blinking once. Twice. Three times. 

Adora doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. This is not her Catra. Or at least, this is not the Catra that she’s kissed and properly held in her arms. This is not the Catra who swore mutual vows to love and protect Adora throughout the worst and best moments of their lives. 

This is not the Catra who Adora recently married. This is a Catra at the very start of her journey. A Catra who will soon be her enemy. 

Adora expects this Catra to say something like, “ _Why are you still awake_?” or “ _What are you staring at_?” Taunting. Teasing. They were so close in the days before the sword and She-Ra. Close, yes. But never as close as they wanted to be. 

Though as Adora stares at her and Catra stares back, not a single question leaves Catra’s lips. Instead, her eyes begin to wander— flying around the room in an odd sort of alarm, latching onto the bunks and the cadets and the cot beneath her. 

And then, with a gasp and a terrible clang, Catra shoots upright and smacks her head directly into the ceiling of the bunk. 

Catra sinks back down, clutching at her forehead with her eyes scrunched tightly shut. She groans loudly, but only for a moment. The sound is soon swallowed by a series of heavy breaths—like she’s on the verge of hyperventilating. 

And that’s when Adora hears them—the words between Catra’s ragged gulps of air. 

“This can’t be real,” Catra murmurs. “This can’t be—”

Her eyes shoot open again. She glances around, looking utterly horrified as she examines the barracks around them—searching, desperately for _something_. Something that she does not find, if her continued panic is any indication. 

Adora can’t begin to guess what’s wrong. But she still leans forward—compelled to comfort Catra despite what she knows about where (or rather, _when_ ) they both are. 

“Hey, _hey_.” Adora reaches out, curling hands around Catra’s shoulders. “It’s okay. I think you were having a nightmare—”

Catra yanks herself out of Adora’s grasp. She shakes her head furiously, like Adora couldn’t possibly understand, and then crawls backward on her palms until she’s off the cot entirely, leaning back on the cold metal floor. 

“No,” Catra denies, voice thick with…are those tears? “No, _this place_ is the nightmare. I can’t be here anymore, I can’t be—”

Adora blinks. Wait. Does that mean Catra also remembers…?

“Catra,” Adora says cautiously, keeping her voice no louder than a whisper. “What do you mean?”

Catra simply stares at her for a moment. Her brows furrow in the way they always do when she’s deeply worried about something— when she’s deeply worried about Adora, in particular. 

And then, in another erratic movement, Catra surges back onto the bed. She practically climbs into Adora’s lap, framing Adora’s face with her hands and squeezing her palms tightly into Adora’s skin. 

It’s a bit unsettling, the way she leans over Adora. Like a wave prepared to break over the rocks. Mouth buckled into a heartbroken grimace, eyes glistening with tears. When she speaks, her voice is impossibly fragile. 

“Please tell me you remember,” Catra pleads. Her fingers stroke across the tops of Adora’s cheekbones. Tender, in the way that this younger, rougher Catra never allowed herself to be—

“Catra,” Adora says again, clutching at Catra’s wrists. “Please, tell me what you mean—”

“Listen to me,” Catra says urgently, like nothing else could ever be more important. “I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but...you and I. We were together. We were married, and in love, even if you don’t remember it now—”

Adora sighs enormously, almost crying with relief. So Catra _does_ remember. She remembers what they were—or are—in the future. And Adora is so relieved to know that she is not alone here, in this echo of a time long since passed. 

“I do remember,” Adora says, nodding beneath Catra’s hands. She tightens her grip on Catra’s wrists. “I remember everything about you, about _us_.” 

Catra’s sigh of relief mirrors Adora’s own. She nearly tackles Adora in an embrace, after that. Peppering kisses along her neck and face and eyes. As if trying to confirm Adora’s existence with the pressure of lips against skin. 

“I was so scared I lost you,” Catra whispers, barely breathing the words into Adora’s ear. “That the portal had somehow reset everything, and I was back to where I started—”

Adora shakes her head. “But I don’t understand. Why do _you_ remember? I was the one who went through the portal, I’m the only person who should’ve been sent back in time—”

Catra shakes her head again, eyes alight with fear, as though recalling a terrible memory. 

“No. I went into the portal too, not long after you.”

“What?” Adora demands “Why would you—?”

But she doesn’t finish asking the question. Not before a warning alarm blares, and the lights switch on—all of them, all at once. Adora recalls enough about life in the Horde to know what it means. That it's a wake-up call for the cadets, and that training will start in a matter of minutes. 

Catra scrambles backward, off of Adora. She takes up her usual, less conspicuous position at the foot of the bed, where the rest of the cadets will expect her to be. 

“We’ll talk later,” says Catra, mumbling only from the corner of her mouth. She glances surreptitiously at the waking bodies around them. The other cadets are all stretching and yawning, climbing down from the upper bunks and ducking out from under the lower ones. 

“For now,” Catra continues, whispering to not be overheard, “we’ll need to blend in. You should get up—people are gonna think it’s weird that you’re not dressed already.”

Slowly, Adora realizes what Catra means. Back before she defected, Adora was always the first cadet to wake in the morning. She always wanted to carve out a few extra hours of training for herself, and the bathrooms were always emptier at the crack of dawn. 

The fact that she’s still here is suspicious in itself. Catra was once known for sleeping in, despite the alarms. But not Adora. 

Adora nods wordlessly, then begins throwing on her clothes. They’ll meet later to discuss how they got here. And—more importantly—how to return to their proper time. 

* * *

Adora has heard of _deja vu_ , but actually living her past again—minute to minute, second to second—is something else entirely. 

When Adora sees that her morning training simulation is “Princesses in the Whispering Woods”—the most difficult of all the Horde’s courses—it immediately becomes clear what day it is. 

This is the day that Adora found the sword. Or, the day that she will first set eyes on the sword. It won’t be until tomorrow that Adora actually sneaks out to retrieve it, finding reasons to defect along the way. 

The thought makes Adora want to scream. She knows that the sword is important—it led them to peace, eventually. But the path was not direct, nor was it easy. That sword was the key to opening a vicious portal that nearly destroyed Etheria. It was also the conduit through which the Heart of Etheria—a universe-ending superweapon—could be fired.

In her time, the future—present— _whatever_ , Adora no longer needs the sword to transform into She-Ra. If anything, the sword kept her from transforming the way She-Ra is supposed to: through pure willpower and magic and love. 

Now, she wonders what would’ve happened if she destroyed the sword the second she laid eyes on it. If she relied on herself and the true nature of She-Ra from the start, instead of that weapon of mass destruction. 

She doesn’t know. Perhaps she will have the chance to find out. 

The training simulation starts exactly as it did the first time. Bots project holograms of princesses. Blaster fire whizzes by Adora’s ear. And Kyle, as expected, gets shot down in the first few minutes. 

Adora struggles a bit more to keep up than she once did. She hasn’t been training as much since the universe reached its new peaceful era, and now, after so many years, the staff feels a bit unwieldy in her hands. It takes a few miss-hits for the muscle memory to kick in the way it’s supposed to. 

Though they’re a bit comical now, these holographic caricatures of princesses. All sharp teeth and long fingernails and hunched spines. Adora would laugh at them, she thinks, if the hologram of Angella didn’t leave such a bitter taste in her mouth. 

Adora smashes through the last bot with the metal staff, launching herself away just as the internal mechanisms overheat and explode. She tumbles across the floor, beating bruises into her shoulders, and a moment passes in which Adora simply lies there, catching her breath. 

That’s when a pair of feet walk past her—long black claws clacking across the ground. 

Catra walks over to the bot and, with a light kick of her heel, pushes that smoking mass of metal into a hole. It practically collapses in on itself as it falls, echoing hollowly as it tumbles down, down, _down_ into the tunnels beneath the training simulator. 

Catra showed up late, just like the first time. She turns to Adora and points to the floor, frowning. And somehow it feels different than Adora remembers. Wrong. Catra always used to gloat when she got the last kill during training simulations—

But then Adora glances down and notices the red light emanating from the panel beneath her body. 

She curses herself for forgetting about this part—that she nearly fell through the floor at the end of the simulation. But it’s too late. Adora’s body begins to drop, and she manages to extend the staff at the very last moment. It’s all that keeps her from falling into the abyss below. 

Above her, Catra leans over the edge—blue and yellow eyes glowing in the near-darkness. They don’t taunt each other this time. Catra only wordlessly extends a hand for Adora to take, and for a moment, Adora is struck by a memory. A hallucination, really. Of when Horde Prime poisoned her, and nearly killed her. 

She imagined herself trapped, fallen into some deep trench—utterly surrounded by darkness and eerie green light. Fading away with every breath and beat of her own heart. 

But then Catra appeared, throwing open a glowing door somewhere above her. She cried Adora’s name. Urged her to keep fighting, to keep living. Told Adora that she loved her, and reached down a hand to seize hold of hers—

Now, Adora takes Catra’s hand and allows herself to be hauled back onto solid ground. Adora’s hand lingers on Catra’s for perhaps a bit too long after she’s rescued, savoring the sensation of Catra’s thumb lightly stroking the base of her palm. 

But then, _“Training exercise successfully completed,”_ booms over the speakers, and the cadets all begin walking toward the locker rooms. Catra releases Adora’s hand and instead nudges her with a hip. 

“You okay?” Catra whispers. She places a hand at Adora’s back and gently guides them both toward the locker rooms, where the rest of the cadets are headed. 

Adora nods. “Fine. Just disoriented, I guess.” She turns a concerned look on Catra. “You do realize that...when we go in there—”

Catra’s expression darkens considerably. “I know,” she nearly hisses. “Shadow Weaver.”

* * *

Catra has done a great many terrible things in her life. But she thought, at least, that she deserved the meager comfort of knowing that Shadow Weaver—the cruel sorceress who raised Catra and Adora in the Horde—would remain truly and permanently dead. 

But somehow that is too much to ask for. Because Shadow Weaver is _here_ , walking the halls of the Fright Zone as though she never died at all. As though she wasn’t consumed by a scorching, magical inferno before Catra’s very eyes. 

Only moments ago, Catra saw her. Shared a room with her. Felt that familiar, juvenile fright that only Shadow Weaver could create within her. 

It was one thing to see her again. But to see her like this, at the height of her power? Gliding, not walking. Hair flying in a wall of shadow. Whole body radiating the dark magic she’d stolen and corrupted from Scorpia’s Black Garnet. 

This version of Shadow Weaver tormented Catra throughout her childhood. This version of Shadow Weaver haunts Catra’s nightmares to this day.

Shadow Weaver was probably pleasantly surprised to see Catra so speechless, so unable to talk back and unwilling to sulk. Teenage Catra was all about rebellion and disrespect—always testing Shadow Weaver’s patience, just to see how far it could stretch before reaching its limit. But back in that locker room, Catra was simply too stunned to act convincingly like her past self. Too stunned, and too consumed by fear and fury and confusion. 

Shadow Weaver’s “sacrifice” is still a sore spot for Catra—one that she doesn’t know how to feel about. Sometimes, when she’s feeling particularly generous, she pretends that she forgives Shadow Weaver for everything. Pretends that Shadow Weaver’s sacrifice was a sufficient act of redemption. 

A logical side of Catra’s brain knows that it makes sense to forgive her. If Shadow Weaver hadn’t died to get Adora to the Heart of Etheria, the whole universe would’ve been blasted to smithereens. And Catra wouldn’t have found a new life with Adora. 

And that was what mattered, wasn’t it? Loving Adora, living with Adora, standing by Adora’s side and holding Adora in her arms. 

But looking at Shadow Weaver like that...at the peak of her magic and cruelty...Catra found all traces of forgiveness draining from her body. She remembered, suddenly, all the terrible things that Shadow Weaver had done to her. All the terrible things she still had yet to do to this younger version of herself.

It was all Catra could do to sit silent and still. To refrain from extending her claws and sinking them deep into Shadow Weaver’s neck.

Catra sighs deeply and tries to focus on the skyline before her. The Fright Zone’s skyline. One that she never thought she’d see again. 

It’s been nearly half an hour since that little encounter in the locker room, and Adora has been walking with Shadow Weaver ever since. It makes Catra uneasy, knowing that Adora is trapped alone with that monster of a woman. But she can’t intervene. Not without drawing too much attention to herself. 

Besides—today’s a special day, after all. 

Today, Shadow Weaver will promote Adora to Force Captain. 

Not that she will hold that position for long. Because soon after, Adora will also find the sword, and She-Ra, and Glimmer and Bow. And then Adora will leave the Horde—and Catra—for the greater good. 

Catra has no reason to be bitter about it now. She _shouldn’t_ be bitter about it now. She knows how it all ends. That all of it—every moment of torture and torment and loneliness—would lead to something better. Something great, even. A peace unlike the universe had ever seen before.

And more than that, Catra is luckier than she has any right to be. Adora came back to her, in the end. Or Catra came back to Adora. Either way, they’re happy now. 

Or at least...they _were_ happy. Right until the portal sent them here, back to square one. 

A door slams open, and when Catra turns around, she sees Adora sprinting toward her from across the roof—ponytail whipping out behind her as she runs. And really, Catra can’t believe it. She can’t believe how young Adora looks here. Such prominent dimples in her cheeks. Skin practically glowing in the smog-drenched sunlight. 

And that jacket…god, it’s been years since Catra’s seen that old Horde jacket. If Catra hadn’t hated it so much, she might have actually missed it.

Adora settles into Catra’s side, weaving an arm through Catra’s elbow so that they’re both leaning over the rust-stained railing—two pairs of eyes combing the Fright Zone’s jagged architecture. 

“I almost forgot how creepy she was,” Adora says, suppressing a small shudder. “It makes my skin crawl—the lies, the touches. And worse, I had to pretend to be happy about the promotion and invasion of Thaymor despite knowing everything—”

Adora shakes her head and then, with a small sigh, buries her face into Catra’s neck. “How did we get here?” Adora asks miserably, voice muffled by Catra's skin. “How did _you_ get here?” 

Catra chuckles with a bitter sort of amusement. “How do you think? It was the portal.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. I was the only one who went through—”

Catra scoffs. “I know you’re determined to die heroically and all, but really. You should know better than to think I’d let you.” 

“You went in after me?”

It’s ridiculous that Adora still sounds surprised to hear such a thing. Like Catra hasn’t followed Adora into the jaws of death countless times before. Like Catra won’t do it a million times more, in the years to come. 

They’re at odds in this, of course. They always have been. Adora constantly searches for ways to martyr herself, and Catra refuses to let Adora die before she reaches a ripe old age. 

Because Catra’s determined to have that, if nothing else. She’s determined to stand between Adora and this absurd, obnoxious, insatiable need to be a self-destructive hero. It’s the one thing that’s never changed about Adora over the years, despite Catra’s best efforts. She still charges headfirst into danger at every turn. 

Catra nudges her. “Of course, dummy. As long as I’ve got breath in my lungs, I’ll be chasing after you.”

“But it wasn’t the plan for you to go through,” Adora says, then gestures to herself. “Only me. Only She-Ra—”

“Yeah, well.” Catra shrugs. “Your rope snapped.”

Adora leans back to squint at Catra. “My rope?”

“The one I tied around your waist,” Catra says. “It snapped, and I knew something went wrong, so I followed you.”

Though when Catra explains it like that—so carelessly, so flippantly—it sounds a lot less terrifying than it actually was. 

Because that’s what it was. Terrifying. Breathlessly terrifying. 

She remembers standing there, in Entrapta’s lab. Clutching that rope like it was her own lifeline, rather than Adora’s. Glaring into that inscrutable purple portal, as though the intensity of her stare might somehow pull Adora from its depths. 

Time stretched and stretched. But no matter how the minutes passed, no matter how Catra stared or worried, Adora didn’t return. 

She heard Entrapta give a nervous little hum. “We’re reaching the forty-five-minute mark. Maybe we should tug the rope as a warning? So she knows to start heading back.”

Catra turned to exchange a glance with Glimmer. They were clearly anxious, the both of them—Catra and Glimmer. But there were different edges to this anticipation. Excitement as well as dread. On the one hand, they might rescue Angella today. On the other, they might lose Adora forever. 

But Catra couldn’t help it. There was some sort of weight in her stomach. One that warned of something terrible. Some calamitous event on the horizon, or in the periphery—one that threatened to upend Catra’s whole world. 

But she was being silly, wasn’t she? Adora promised that she’d be back. Adora was so confident, so sure. And yet…

Catra sighed. She couldn’t afford to panic, not now. Adora needed her. Only Catra could tell Adora what she needed to know—that she was running out of time, and needed to return before it was too late. 

There was only this single string of connectivity between them now: the rope. One end tied around Adora’s waist, the other clutched in Catra’s hands. 

And so, Catra began reeling it in. Pulling it back into their world bit by bit, hand climbing over hand as she yanked it toward herself. It seemed to take hours. Days, even. Her arms grew sore with the effort. 

But no matter how she pulled, the rope never grew taut. It only kept going, pooling at her feet in a neverending pile. 

Catra’s panic began to swell. Why wasn’t the rope getting tighter? How far, exactly, had Adora traveled into that plane between worlds? 

She gave another yank, but immediately sensed that something was wrong. It felt like her muscles were tugging on empty air. Like there was nothing with weight tied to the opposite end of that rope. 

Her arms gave one last jerk backward. She prayed that the rope would tighten, finally. That her muscles would once again find resistance. But ultimately, there was nothing. No one. The end of the rope flew out of the portal, falling limply to the floor at Catra’s feet. 

But that...that couldn’t be right. The rope should’ve been far longer than this. She’d tied it so tightly around Adora’s waist. She’d ensured that it was secure. But somehow, it was here, and Adora was nowhere to be found. 

What had happened to the rest? What had happened to Adora? She wasn’t there. She wasn’t there, and all Catra could see was the end of the rope. Torn. Frayed. Blackened. Like someone had burned through it—

Catra felt as though a column of ice had been plunged into her spine. Someone had cut Adora’s rope. Adora wouldn’t be able to find her way back in time. Or worse, maybe something was keeping her there. Maybe she was already hurt, or—

The rope slipped from Catra’s fingers. Her hands felt numb, nerves tingling like they’d been scraped down to the bone. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she heard Glimmer asking from a million miles away. 

Glimmer hadn’t seen it yet. She hadn’t seen that broken, burned piece of rope on the floor—declaring Adora’s disappearance for the whole world to see. 

“There’s something in there.” 

The words were barely audible as they escaped her lips, so Catra tried again. Loudly. Roughly. Desperately.

“Something’s in there, okay? Something cut Adora’s rope!”

Glimmer’s face paled. “What?” 

Entrapta shook her head. “An interesting theory, I’ll admit—but there’s just no data to support it. My sensors picked up only one other living thing in the space between realities. Angella. There should be nothing else there. Nothing alive, anyway.”

Catra again found herself looking down at the burned-through rope on the floor. She struggled to swallow. Struggled to breathe. 

And then, slowly, she turned her gaze back to the portal. There wasn’t time. Adora was in trouble somewhere on the other side. And in a matter of minutes, the portal would be closing. 

Catra exhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and took a step forward—

But Glimmer teleported directly into her path, both arms outstretched wide—her whole body acting as a barrier. Glimmer’s eyes were wide with outrage. “What are you _doing_?” 

“Out of my way, Sparkles,” hissed Catra. “I’m going in after her.”

She tried to push past Glimmer, but Glimmer thrust her back with both arms, causing Catra to stumble. 

“No!” Glimmer refused. It was painted all over Glimmer’s features—the guilt, the panic, the terror. Catra doubted that her own expression was any different. 

Glimmer set her jaw. “I won’t lose anyone else to this thing.”

This thing. This portal. A monstrous entity that only tore and took and killed—

“She’s not lost,” Catra hissed, shaking her head in defiance. “Not yet, anyway. Not if I have anything to say about—”

“And how exactly are you going to find your way back? The rope clearly didn’t work. You’ll need something else, once you’re inside. And there’s nothing—” 

“Well, not entirely nothing,” Catra heard Entrapta interrupt. “There’s this!” 

She turned to see Entrapta holding up a tiny silver device. Catra blinked at the terrible mess that had suddenly sprung up around her—the papers strewn everywhere, the boxes spilling their contents, the wires tangled across the floor. Entrapta must have been searching her lab while Glimmer and Catra argued. 

“It’s a low frequency emitter,” Entrapta explained. “Most people can’t hear the signals, but you probably can, given your amplified hearing—”

Entrapta pressed a small blue button at the device’s center, and immediately, Catra winced at a strange, deep noise—like the fluttering of wings, right by her ear. 

“Low frequencies can travel long distances. Rather than a rope, you could follow this sound to find your way back. And the device is small enough for you to hide it effectively, even if there _is_ something alive in there. Though I still doubt that there is...”

It was unsettling, the noise from that device. Like the rumble of cracking joints, or the pulse of a struggling heart. And yet it was louder than any of those things had any right to be—an unnatural amplification of the lowest, deepest sounds Catra had ever heard. 

She didn’t like it. It made her hair stand on end. But despite it all, Catra had no other options. This was her only chance to rescue Adora. 

“Thanks, Entrapta,” Catra said, then reached out to claim the emitter. She turned it over in her hands once, then tightened a fist around it. Catra held it as tightly as she once held Adora’s rope. 

She turned back to the portal. Glimmer was still standing there, arms outstretched and trembling, her chest heaving a bit. She seemed on the verge of tears. And why wouldn’t she be? First, she’d lost her mother to this beast of a portal. Then Adora. And now she might lose Catra too.

But that wouldn’t change Catra’s mind. Not while Adora needed her. Not while the clock continued to tick through the little time they still had. 

“I can’t do it,” Catra said in a raw, trembling sort of voice. “I can’t just leave her there. You know that.”

She saw Glimmer gulp. She could tell that Glimmer was searching for some alternative—an option safer than this one, this contingency that promised little hope of success. But there was nothing else. No one else. No one except Glimmer herself, who couldn’t afford to risk herself like this. She was a queen, after all. And what was Catra? Nothing. No one. 

And so, with an anguished little sigh, Glimmer turned and dropped her arms. Clearing the path. Giving Catra permission to make this impossible rescue, or die trying.

Catra nodded at Glimmer in thanks, then began to march forward. Toward Adora, toward the portal. Bracing herself to travel through. It wasn’t her first time entering a portal, necessarily. She had fallen into one a long time ago. The experience was less than pleasant, that first time. She had returned twisted and corrupted and wrong, her atoms flying apart like sand in a heavy wind. 

Catra should have been afraid. But she wasn’t—not for herself, anyway. She was only afraid for Adora, on the other side. Lost. Alone. Running out of time. 

And again, Catra exhaled deeply and squared her shoulders. She shut her eyes tight and then, with a grunt of determination, Catra took a blind step forward, into a portal that smelled oddly of ozone and burnt ropes—

“So the portal sent us back in time,” says Adora, tearing Catra from her memories. She glances up to see Adora scratching her own chin, brows scrunched up in her characteristic _thinking_ face. “Or maybe it sent us to an alternate reality? Either is possible, I guess. ”

Catra shakes the memory from her mind, once again taking in her strange surroundings. It’s difficult to reconcile this sight—this Fright Zone of the past—with the plant-covered, abandoned one that Catra has come to know. 

“If it’s an alternate reality, I can’t tell how it differs from ours. Everything is exactly the same as it was.” Catra wrinkles her nose. “Even the Fright Zone smells the same.”

Adora sighs and throws up her arms. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe how _typical_ this all is. How have our lives become so weird that time travel and alternate realities are just typical everyday problems?”

Catra laughs a bit at that. “Says the girl who can conjure a sword out of thin air and turn into an eight-foot-tall warrior princess.”

“I just don’t really understand, is all. If we’ve been sent back in time, shouldn’t we be able to see our past selves? Instead, we’ve been dropped back into these ridiculous—” Adora glances down at herself and groans, “—teenage bodies. What are we, eighteen? And god, was I really that scrawny back then?”

“The Fright Zone didn’t feed people much, remember? And as for this blast from the past...” Catra rubs a thumb against one of the gray tufts beside her ears. “Maybe there’s some time travel rules we don’t know about. Maybe it’s against the laws of physics for someone to be in two places at once.”

Adora hums like that’s a good theory. “Maybe. I bet Entrapta would know. We should’ve asked more about time travel while we had the chance.”

They slip into silence, after that. Staring at the smoke trailing from all those towering factory chimneys. At the piles of scrap and trash and waste. The Fright Zone really is exactly how it was, all those years ago, and Catra can hardly stand it. She was supposed to be beyond this place, beyond the person she was when she lived here—

“I know this is hard but...” Adora reaches for Catra’s hand “I’m so glad that you’re here with me. If you weren’t, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Gone crazy, probably.”

Catra remembers. She remembers waking up in those old barracks, the bunks looking the same as they always had. She saw Adora at the top of the bed—staring across that expanse of cot and blanket. Separate, in a way they were no longer supposed to be. 

And for a gripping, terrifying moment, Catra feared that it had all been a dream. All of it. The war, Horde Prime, and the peace they found afterward. The _life_ they found afterward, together. 

She couldn’t stand the idea of Adora not remembering. This thing between them—this connection of eyes and hearts and bodies—it wasn’t something meant to be held by a single person. It was meant to be shared, split between them. And if Adora forgot everything...

But Adora didn’t. She remembered. She remembered everything about Catra, about _them_ , and only then did Catra breathe easy.

“So what do we do now?” Catra asks. “I mean, we’re here now. In the past. And we have no idea how to get us back to the future. Or the present or... _whatever_.”

_Time travel_ , Catra thinks bitterly. Truly, nothing could be more confusing. 

Adora scratches her chin again. “Well...I think our best chance is to hope that Entrapta figures out what went wrong, and opens another portal to rescue us. Though I don’t know what we should do in the meantime. Maybe we could visit this time’s Entrapta and convince her to help us?”

Catra nods at first, like that’s a good idea. But then, as she begins thinking more deeply about it, Catra’s nod transforms into a fierce head shake. 

They’re in the past. A past indistinguishable from their own. 

Which means that, if this timeline is truly theirs, and they do something crazy like chase after Entrapta, the consequences could follow them all the way to the present—

“Wait,” Catra says, turning to Adora with a frantic sort of urgency. “That’s a bad idea. We can’t do anything that’ll change the past. If we do, we could end up hurting ourselves. ”

Adora raises her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Catra begins. “Let’s say that you didn’t go on that walk with Shadow Weaver. You wouldn’t have been made Force Captain. And then you wouldn’t have been able to steal a skiff. And if we didn’t steal that skiff, you’d never find the sword, and never meet Glimmer and Bow. One thing will lead to another and—”

A moment passes in which Catra’s words sink in. And then Adora says the very thing that they’re both thinking:

“Our whole future falls apart.” 

The words are spoken quietly. Frightfully. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the smog and the distant fires of the forges. 

Catra nods, expression grim. 

And that’s what Catra is truly afraid of. That if they behave too strangely, or make the wrong choice, the future they worked so hard to create will simply disappear. Wiped away as though it never happened. Forgotten and dismissed as easily as a pleasant dream. 

Catra clenches her fists. She won’t let it happen. She won’t endanger their future. Without that future, Catra has nothing, truly nothing—

“We can’t change anything. We’ll just have to wait, and do everything the same way we did before.”

“Is that really our only option?” Adora murmurs. “Are we really going to have to relive the whole again from start to finish?”

“I mean, hopefully it doesn’t take _that_ long,” Catra says. “I’m sure Entrapta is cooking up theories on what happened to us as we speak. We just have to wait for her to open another portal to rescue us. In the meantime…we just play along. Let history repeat.”

“But Catra—you do realize what you’re saying, right? The war we went through...it was awful. Kingdoms were shattered. The universe was nearly destroyed. People died—”

“I know that,” Catra says, exhaling deeply. “Trust me, I know. We’ve lived through a lot of bad things. Terrible things—lots of them my fault. But I’m worried that if we change the story even a little bit—if we step off the path that we know works—we could change everything for the worse. Think about it. Everything’s a chain reaction. We do something different, and there’s a good chance that we’ll derail ourselves so much that we’ll never defeat Horde Prime. And then he’ll destroy the whole universe, just as he always planned to—”

Adora grabs Catra’s shoulders. Her grip is so tight, it’s nearly painful. “But do you realize what that means for us? Playing along. Letting things go the exact same way as before–”

Catra’s expression darkens. “I know,” she says, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. “You’ll have to leave. We’ll have to be enemies again.”

This is the part that Catra didn’t want to consider. The part that she refused to think about, despite its overwhelming significance. 

If they’re forced to relive every moment, if they’re forced to make every choice as it was made before…

They’ll also be forced to separate. They’ll have to resume the division they worked so hard to mend. They’ll have to return to their opposite sides. The Rebellion against the Horde. She-Ra against Force Captain Catra. 

And Catra will have to mean it too, if this is going to work. She’ll really, truly, have to try to destroy the rebellion. Despite the present, where she counts so many rebels as friends. Despite knowing that the Horde is wrong. Despite Catra’s ongoing efforts to reform and repent and remake herself for the better— 

Adora shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly. “No, I won’t do it. I can’t just leave you behind again, not after everything—”

Catra layers her own hands over Adora’s. “Look. It’s not forever. Just for a little while, until Entrapta finds a fix—”

“We don’t know that, Catra!” Adora nearly yells.“We don’t know anything—”

“But that’s where you’re wrong, okay? We know _everything_. That’s our advantage. We know all the choices we have to make, and how they end.” 

“And you think that’s supposed to make this easier? Fighting you, despite knowing that you and I...that we’re—”

Adora’s voice breaks, and she trails into silence, staring determinedly at the ground. She resents this—all of this. This situation, and where it will inevitably lead them. 

“At least we’ll know,” Catra says, cupping Adora’s cheek. “We’ll know that it’s not hopeless. That _we’re_ not hopeless.”

“There has to be another way,” Adora insists. “Some other way to get home—”

Catra chuckles and leans closer, until foreheads are touching, perched under and over one another. “Trust me—if you have other ideas, I’ll be happy to hear them. But right now, this is all that I’ve got.”

“But Catra…” Adora’s voice shakes with the imminent thickness of tears. “If I go, and you stay here...they’re going to do such awful things to you.”

“Who?”

“ _Everyone_.” 

It’s no more than a broken whisper, that single word. But it’s enough to send a shiver down Catra’s spine. Both of Adora’s arms wrap tightly around Catra’s back. 

“The Horde. Shadow Weaver. Hordak. Horde Prime. _Me_. We’re going to hurt you—”

Catra tries to laugh, but it comes out weak and stilted. “It’s nothing I haven’t been through before. I can handle it, Adora.”

Minutes pass. Minutes filled with doubt. Because for a moment, even Catra begins to wonder—can she handle it? 

She knows how terrible each and every moment will be, trapped in the Horde. The torments that Shadow Weaver will inflict upon her, the cruel choices demanded of her. The truly horrific mistakes Catra will make along the way. 

She’s going to hurt so many people. Herself. Her friends. Strangers, the kind that will demand her execution when this is all over. But it simply has to be done. They can’t risk the future. They can’t jeopardize the choices of their past selves. Catra would rather do it—all of it—over again.

But it can’t be that bad, she tells herself. It’s just reliving bad memories. Events that already happened. Events that she can’t be blamed for, or hurt by. Not really. They can’t affect her more than they already have. 

Or at least that’s what she tells herself. 

Catra kisses Adora’s temple, letting her lips linger there for several moments too long. But she thinks she’s justified in this—in holding Adora a little too tightly. She needs to enjoy this while it lasts. The sensation of Adora within her arms, within her reach. It’ll be gone soon enough. Soon, they’ll both be sprinting away from each other. Toward war. Toward disaster. 

But also toward peace, eventually. 

“You should go get that skiff,” Catra whispers into Adora’s ear. “She-Ra is waiting.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora refuses to jump from a moving vehicle. 
> 
> Catra is asked to tase her wife. 
> 
> Time travel is the absolute _worst_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while rewatching the Sword, part 1 & 2 for fic research, I realized that Adora gets knocked unconscious like... so many times in the span of like 24 hours. like is she okay?? does she have a concussion??
> 
> anyway here's your weekly dose of PAIN. Kudos and comments are super appreciated! i was kinda stunned by the positive reaction that first chapter got, so thank you! 
> 
> also I'm trying out comedic chapter summaries because i need to diffuse the absolute angst of this fic

They find the sword shortly after that. 

Adora doesn’t want it. Not now that she knows what it does, what it was created to do. It is, and always will be, a weapon made to destroy the universe. 

It’s exactly as she remembers it. A broad-faced, almost crystalline blade—golden at the hilt, with a teal runestone in the center of its grip. 

She knows that runestone. She knows what it looks like. She knows what it feels like, beneath the brush of her own fingertips. And more than anything, she knows what it’s for. That runestone allowed the First Ones to control and weaponize She-Ra. And someday soon, it will allow Light Hope to control and weaponize Adora too. 

It sits there, that sword—glinting invitingly at Adora from only a short distance away. Upright and tangled in a thick array of roots and vines. 

“So...this is what it was like,” she hears Catra murmur, “when you found the sword, I mean.”

Adora’s head snaps up to meet Catra’s gaze. She feels oddly dazed from staring at the sword for so long, and idly, she notices that her hand is already outstretched—reaching mindlessly forward, fingers itching to to _hold_ and _grab_ and _take_. 

Adora shoves her hand back to her side. It’s unsettling—the sword’s pull on her. Especially now that she knows better. She begins to wonder if she had any choice at all, back when she first found it in these woods. 

It’s only then that she notices Catra lowering her arm in the same way. Eyes affixed to the blade as though mesmerized. Whole body arching toward the sword plunged between the vines. 

Adora steps between them—Catra and the sword. This is Adora’s burden to carry, not Catra’s. 

Though Catra wasn't here the first time this happened. They were separated by an accident—a vine had yanked Adora off the skiff as it shot through the trees. She tumbled between branches and leaves until she landed, unconscious, on a bed of moss somewhere below.

And that was where she found it, the first time. The sword was waiting for her when she awoke. 

Though Adora was unwilling to let history repeat so perfectly. She didn’t want to fall so gracelessly from the skiff. She didn’t want to risk the chance of landing wrong and cracking her neck on a tree branch. It would be better, she thought, if they just wandered the woods for a while, waiting for the sword’s gleam to catch Adora’s eye through the treeline—which it inevitably did. 

Catra was nervous about it, though. She worried that changing even the smallest detail could lead to dire consequences somewhere down the road. 

“Catra,” Adora said firmly. “I am not going to throw myself out of a moving skiff. Now, are you coming with me to find the sword or not?”

“But what if you falling out of that skiff was somehow critical to the fate of the universe?”

“Look,” Adora said. “So long as I find the sword sometime today, I should be able to find it tomorrow too. It’s just a small change. One that only we’ll remember. I doubt it will make a big difference.”

Catra hummed, seeming unconvinced. But her doubts didn’t keep her from following Adora into the woods. Nor did it keep her from following Adora here, to this spot that holds the sword. 

Adora sighs and outstretches her hand again, trying to compose herself. The sword isn’t going to hurt her. Not permanently, anyway. She has to take it. She _has_ to. 

“Just so you know,” Adora says, glancing at Catra over a shoulder. “When I touch it, I might pass out. And then the sword will disappear.”

Catra raises an eyebrow. She’s never much appreciated the over-the-top theatricality of magic. “Seriously?”

“Unfortunately,” says Adora, and her stomach begins to sink in dread. “It’s just… it didn’t feel so great, the first time I forged my connection to the sword. It was overwhelming. Painful, even. I’ve never felt anything like it since.”

“Oh,” Catra says, features softening. “Are you sure you want to—?”

“It’s okay,” Adora assures. “It won’t last for more than a few moments. And I’ll wake up a little while after.”

Catra nods hesitantly. “Well...if you _do_ pass out, I’ll catch you.”

Adora shoots Catra a small, grateful smile. She briefly wonders how different their lives would be if Catra had been here the first time that Adora found the sword. Would they have returned to the Woods and befriended Glimmer and Bow together? Would they have ever become enemies at all? 

She’ll never know. She can’t afford to know. 

So now she’s turning back to the sword, air gusting from her nostrils in a sharp exhale. She can’t believe she’s doing this again. She can’t believe that she’s taking the sword, after everything. It isn’t fair. Why can’t she even enjoy the luxury of learning her lesson? Why, after all these years, does Adora still find herself without a choice? 

She reaches out a single, trembling finger. She can do this. She _has_ to do this. 

Adora’s fingernail barely grazes the hilt before a bright light flashes into her eyes, blinding her—filling her mind with images that she’ll only vaguely remember, they are so dazzling and intense. Light Hope and Mara’s ship and the portal that brought Adora to Etheria and She-Ra—

And then it’s all going dark, and Adora’s knees are buckling. She collapses backward with a gasping sigh, blood roaring in her ears. Her skin tingling as though electrified. 

“I’ve got you,” Catra whispers, catching Adora by the waist before she falls helplessly toward the ground. 

The last thing Adora feels before blacking out is the pressure of Catra’s arms around her middle, holding her upright despite the gravity determined to drag her down into unconsciousness. 

It’s all she has. That pressure. That warmth. 

But then the darkness swallows Adora up entirely. 

* * *

When they return to the Fright Zone, it’s fairly late into the evening. Just barely past dinner. 

Catra and Adora are discreet as they sneak back into the barracks, slipping into a crowd of cadets still wandering back from the mess hall. It was easy to pretend that they’d simply been there the whole time—finishing their dinner in peace, rather than exploring a forbidden section of rebel territory. 

When the lights go out in the barracks, Catra settles herself at the foot of Adora’s bunk, just like before. Just like she used to. Though she’s a bit unaccustomed to it now, having spent years stretched out beside Adora on a real bed. 

Catra and Adora’s bed in Bright Moon is absurdly wide, wide enough to fit at least four of themselves and then some. It’s almost hard to believe that they slept like this for so many years, two bodies crammed into a space that could hardly hold one. 

Though Catra remembers, suddenly, that she won’t have to worry about being cramped for long. Soon Catra will have a fairly sizable bunk in the Force Captain barracks all to herself. A surprisingly large and empty platform for her nightmares—a bed where she will sleep alone for years. 

She can hardly stomach the thought. 

Though Catra’s mounting misery is interrupted by Adora’s foot, nudging her somewhat insistently. Catra squints open one eye and hisses, “What?”

In the dark, Catra sees Adora beckoning her forward. “Come up here.”

Her other arm is outstretched in an open embrace. One that Catra desperately wants to dive into, but knows that she shouldn’t. They’re changing too many variables now. One wrong move, and everything could go wrong. 

“We shouldn’t,” Catra whispers back. “What if someone sees—”

“Catra,” Adora interrupts. “Please just come up here. We only have a few hours and I…” Adora makes a small, miserable noise. Not quite a whimper. Not quite a sob. But Catra feels it like a blow to the gut nonetheless. 

“This is our last chance,” Adora says, voice trembling despite her whisper. “Before we’re separated, I mean. No one will see. I promise.”

She sees Adora outstretch a hand. Reaching, in the darkness, for Catra. Adora knows that Catra can see it—the hand, as well as the pleading in Adora’s eyes. 

And Catra can’t just leave that hand hovering there, calling to her. She wants this too. She doesn’t want to give up her space in Adora’s bed, not for anything. 

Well. _Almost_ anything. Soon, she’ll have no choice but to give it up—not if she wants to protect their future together, as well as the future of the whole universe. 

But she hopes that Adora is right in this. She hopes that small changes can’t make big differences. 

So Catra sits up, carefully crawling over Adora’s legs until they’re side-by-side on that tiny cot. Adora encloses them both in the coarse Horde-issued blanket, prepared to sleep—but not quite yet. Not before she cups a hand around the back of Catra’s neck and jointly draws their faces forward.

It’s a lazy kiss, at first. Made sloppy by Adora’s sightlessness. But slowly, it grows urgent. Desperate. A graceless collision of teeth and tongue, lips tugging like hands at the opposite ends of a rope. 

They can’t go further than this. Not in the barracks. They can only collapse beside one another, stifling their own heavy breaths and willing themselves to fall asleep. 

* * *

Adora shoots upright in bed, tormented by nightmares created by the sword. It’s calling to her from somewhere in the Whispering Woods, and Catra can do nothing but rub soothing circles across Adora’s shoulders as the dream fades from her mind. 

Adora murmurs, "I guess it's time to go."

But Catra already knows. She blinks repeatedly as she stares at the metal bunk above her, willing herself not to cry. 

Adora disentangles the blanket from her body. She unfolds her jacket and tugs it over her shoulders, then wraps a belt securely around her waist. 

As Adora slips out of the room, Catra takes a moment to compose herself. She blinks and blinks, staving off tears. It’s difficult to imagine what it’ll be like once Adora is gone. Catra has grown so used to having Adora by her side, she’s nearly forgotten what it’s like to lose her. 

But Catra can’t stay here, in Adora’s cot. She can’t let Adora leave without first saying goodbye. Catra will never forgive herself if she does. 

So she stumbles to her feet and heads outside, into the hallway. Following the noise of Adora’s rapidly disappearing footsteps. 

Adora is standing there, waiting for her. Shuffling from foot to foot, concealed behind a thick panel of piping and electrical coils. When she sees Catra approaching, she extends a hand for Catra to take, and Catra practically throws herself into her grasp. 

She pulls Catra close, until Catra is sighing against Adora’s collarbone. Their arms curl tightly around each other. 

“So this is it, huh?” Catra whispers. “Next time I see you, we’ll be enemies.”

Catra feels Adora shake her head. “ _Pretending_ to be enemies.”

Catra nods against the too-tall collar of Adora’s Horde-issued jacket. 

“Look,” Adora continues, moving a hand to stroke Catra’s hair. “No matter what happens...no matter what I say or do...please don’t forget that. Don’t forget that I love you. That I’ll be missing you with every second that goes by. That was always true. And it’s still true now.” 

And again, Catra is nodding. Willing herself to hear Adora’s words, and believe them.

“I love you too,” Catra murmurs. And she knows that the words aren’t supposed to sound this way. So broken. So hopeless. 

Only a day ago, Catra woke with those words spilling between smiling lips. Squealed them between peals of laughter. Gasped them against Adora’s bare skin. 

But that’s gone now. And it will stay gone, unless Catra relives the mistakes she made so long ago. 

Catra’s nails begin to dig too deeply into Adora’s back. They're not forceful enough to pierce skin—they're not even forceful enough to cut through the fabric of her jacket. 

Catra just wants to hold on, is all. Hold on as tightly as she can, for however long she’s still allowed.

Catra sighs. “I’m going to do...so many terrible things. And this time I won’t have a choice.”

“I know,” says Adora. Like she understands. Like Catra has already been forgiven. 

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough for Catra. Adora forgives her too easily, she always has— 

“But I’m not that person anymore, okay? I don’t want to hurt you, or anyone. I don’t want to end the world or fight or ruin kingdoms. I just want to be with you and this…” Catra’s lungs empty in a single, skittering breath, and suddenly, there are tears squeezing out of her eyes—dripping down to form damp circles on the white shirt beneath Adora’s jacket. “...this is the only way we can make sure that happens.”

“I know,” Adora says again, no differently from before. 

Adora’s hand moves from Catra’s hair to Catra’s chin, thumb brushing gently over Catra’s trembling bottom lip. Her touch is impossibly light as she tilts Catra’s chin upwards, drawing her closer, _close,_ until their lips meet in the space where scant inches feel like an ocean.

What follows is a kiss that seeks to stop the world from turning. A kiss that stills the clock, stills Catra’s heartbeat. A kiss that holds and grips and refuses to let go.

It is too deep. Too unfathomable. Catra gulps Adora’s breath into her own lungs as though stockpiling her warmth before a long, cold winter. Adora is, and always will be, the best thing Catra has ever held. And she wants nothing more than to be selfish, to keep her there forever at the expense of the whole universe. 

But it’s an impossible, inexcusable want. One that can’t be met, if Catra still wants to grow beyond her past flaws, her past mistakes. 

And so the moment passes, and slowly, they’re forced to release one another. Limbs and bodies crumbling apart until they’re both standing there, limp and listless. Out of time, the both of them.

“I love you,” says Adora, in one last whisper. “And I’ll see you soon.” 

And then she’s jogging away, toward the Whispering Woods. Toward the rebellion. Toward She-Ra. 

And away from Catra. 

* * *

It’s not long before Adora finds the sword again. 

She finds Bow and Glimmer with it. The sight of them fills her with such relief, it takes every particle of Adora’s willpower not to fall to her knees, clinging to their legs—blurting an explanation of her bizarre circumstances and begging for their help. 

These are her best friends. People who she loves, people who she knows so well. Better, sometimes, than she even knows herself. 

But they don’t recognize her. They gasp, and point, and scream at the sight of her—raising their weapons and their fists like she poses a danger to them. And it’s not fair. It makes no sense. After everything they’ve been through, they remember absolutely nothing. They don’t care about her at all. They don’t know her in the least. 

The thought of it breaks Adora’s heart into fragments. 

Adora is forced to grapple with them for that sword—the one still plunged into the ground beneath a snarl of roots. Bow fires his net arrows, Glimmer hurls magic into her face. Adora is prepared for it, yes. But it still hurts in more ways than one. 

Adora grits her teeth, willing herself to be patient. Despite how they fight now, Adora knows that by the end of tomorrow, things will be better. Adora will have earned Glimmer and Bow’s trust, and they’ll accept her as a friend. No, a _best_ friend. Sometimes she forgets how quick they were to love and care about her. 

But right now, they are afraid of her. She is a Horde soldier by all appearances. An enemy. The very thing that they’ve fought against for their entire lives. 

They’re towing her backward, trying to yank her away from the sword. But it’s too late. That same, trembling finger makes contact with the blade, and the runestone shines an otherworldly, blazing blue. 

Adora is helpless as she passes out again, dragged kicking and screaming into visions of Light Hope and destinies she will never fulfill.

* * *

“For the last time...where—is—Adora?”

Catra knew this was coming. This little interrogation with Shadow Weaver. Adora’s departure was not without its consequences the first time. And it certainly isn’t without its consequences now. 

And just like the first time, Catra covers for Adora. It’s one of the few acts that Catra will still be proud of, when this is all over.

“For the last time, _I don’t know_. Do you think I keep her on a leash?”

Catra knows that this is a useless exercise, anyway. Shadow Weaver will find Adora whether Catra tells her or not. She always had magical methods of tracking Adora’s movements. Even now, as Shadow Weaver hunches over a basin of churning water and darkness, Catra suspects that she’s watching Adora from afar. 

Shadow Weaver’s overprotectiveness of Adora used to make Catra jealous. Catra always wanted that—to be fussed over, like Shadow Weaver fussed over Adora. To be wanted. To be cared about, in the way that Shadow Weaver would never, _ever_ care about Catra. 

But now there is only uneasiness in place of that jealousy. Catra knows that Shadow Weaver never cared about Adora, not really. She only cared about her investment in Adora’s destiny. And most of all, she cared about the power she sensed in Adora so many years ago. 

Shadow Weaver spent nearly two decades grooming Adora into the perfectly obedient, self-destructive soldier. And now, when she panics over Adora’s departure, it’s only because she can’t bear to see a lifetime of her manipulations gone to waste. 

Catra hates it. She hates that Shadow Weaver turned Adora into this. This person that Catra was once jealous of for receiving the barest shred of affection. And more than that, a person so willing to die at the slightest mention of heroic sacrifice. 

It takes all of Catra’s self-restraint not to snap and tell Shadow Weaver to set herself on fire. She deserves it, after everything. And the suggestion will be especially hilarious later on, when Shadow Weaver actually burns alive. 

But she doesn’t say it. She can’t risk the future for the satisfaction of one insult. 

“I know you’re lying,” Shadow Weaver says matter-of-factly. “You two are close. She would never depart without telling you.”

No, she wouldn’t. And she didn’t. 

Catra resists the urge to brush a thumb over her own lips, as if searching for the ghost of Adora’s last kiss. She doesn’t know how long it’ll be before she’s kissed like that again. 

A small, pessimistic part of her worries that it will be months. Maybe even years. Her arms start to feel hollow, thinking that. Like the limbs would rather fade away than spend so long without Adora between them. 

Though the harsh rumble of Shadow Weaver’s voice yanks Catra out of her thoughts, cutting a sharp chill up Catra’s spine. 

“Have it your way. I already know where she is."

Shadow Weaver then reveals what Catra already knows. That Shadow Weaver has already determined Adora’s location. She instructs Catra to go after her—to find her and bring her back to the Horde. 

And just like last time, Catra refuses. If anything, she’s cockier about it now, when she says no. More flippant and impertinent than ever before—practically spitting the words into Shadow Weaver’s expressionless mask.

Sure, Shadow Weaver scares her. Shadow Weaver will always scare her. But Catra has defeated Shadow Weaver before. And not just the weak, magic-less person that Shadow Weaver will someday become. But _this_ Shadow Weaver. A sorceress still connected fully to the Black Garnet. 

And really, what could she do that Catra hasn’t felt before?

But then Catra’s entire body is seized by biting, sizzling electricity—the kind that paralyzes every muscle in her face and limbs. And she remembers, suddenly, why these displays of rebellion never ended well for her. She remembers, suddenly, why she still has nightmares of this woman, and the pain she used to inflict. 

Shadow Weaver’s gnarled hands curl around Catra’s bare shoulders, the nails digging into her skin. Catra wants to scream. But she can’t. She _won’t_. She won’t give Shadow Weaver the satisfaction. 

At that moment, all she wants is for Shadow Weaver to continue being dead. 

* * *

Adora can hardly stand to walk into Thaymor, knowing that within hours, it will be reduced to flame and ash. 

But she can’t interfere. She can’t. The sword is still strapped to Glimmer’s back. And if the attack never happens, Glimmer may never actually trust Adora enough to hand it over. And then She-Ra will never exist, and Horde Prime will never be defeated—

It hurts her head, all this time travel nonsense. She can’t stand to imagine how the smallest choices will influence her future. 

Letting Thaymor get sacked isn’t a small choice, though. It’s a huge choice. A terrible, revolting choice. One that will cost people their homes, their lives, and god knows what else. But what is Adora supposed to do? How is she supposed to choose between a disaster happening before her eyes and a potential disaster down the line?

When the tanks arrive, Adora is retching into a bush—unable to keep Thaymor’s rich food down alongside all the anxiety churning in her stomach. Glimmer and Bow watch her warily, concerned to see her so sick. But they can’t afford to be concerned about her for long—not with the destruction promised by all those approaching Horde tanks. 

Adora relives her history by admitting that she knew about the attack. The first time, it was excusable to some degree. Adora truly thought that Thaymor was a rebel fortress—a bastion of the insurgency. But Adora can’t claim that now. Not even a little. Adora knew everything about this, about Thaymor. She knew what those tanks would do, and who they would do it to. And yet she did nothing.

But she pretends otherwise. She says the same things she did last time, acting like she didn’t know any better. Like she didn’t know everything, every last detail—

She doesn’t have a choice in saying these things. Or at least, she doesn’t _think_ she has a choice. But she’s so confused. Nothing feels right, or good, least of all Adora herself, and Adora may end up vomiting into another bush—

She runs, swallowing her nausea as she seeks to confront a Horde tank. Her memory tells her that Catra will be inside and truly, it’s the only reassurance that Adora has—seeing the tank’s hatch creak open, and knowing that the person inside will remember the truth. 

Catra’s smile is genuinely relieved as she lunges down from the hatch, knocking Adora to the ground with the force of her embrace. She straddles Adora there on the ground, a purr rumbling from deep within Catra’s chest. 

It’s a familiar sound—one of Adora’s favorites—and for a moment, she closes her eyes and imagines herself somewhere else. Back in their bed in Bright Moon. Sunlight spilling through the curtains as Catra leans over her, dragging lazy kisses against her skin. 

The sound of a cannon firing forces Adora’s eyes to snap open. Above her, Catra’s eyes are slightly puffy—like she was crying sometime before the journey here, and tried her best to hide it. 

Adora knows that this can’t be easy for either of them—this replay of such an awful moment in their lives. And sure enough, Catra keeps glancing nervously at the surrounding destruction. Eyes fixated on fires whipping in the breeze and the smoke curling toward the sky.

“Catra,” Adora says, reaching up to direct Catra’s gaze back down, toward her face. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

Catra stares at her for a moment, as though drinking in the sight. And then, slowly—like she’s moving in a trance—she reaches down and plucks the flower from behind Adora’s ear. Adora inhales sharply as Catra’s knuckles brush against her skin.

Catra mutters, “This is going to be so much harder than I thought.”

And then she tosses that flower away, into the dirt. 

Catra yanks Adora to her feet by the collar of her jacket. As she stumbles to her feet, Adora notices Catra’s fingers dipping into the collar, pinning something hard and metallic to the lining of the fabric. Only when she glances downward—scrutinizing the space between the jacket and the shirt—does Adora realize what’s been placed there. 

A Horde-issued communicator. The kind given to the Horde’s undercover spies, who can’t afford to carry around the ranking badges that double as field radios. Not without blowing their cover. 

After defecting, Adora will have to dispose of her Force Captain’s badge to avoid being tracked. But she hadn't considered this—that she might still need the means to communicate with Catra even when the badge is gone.

“Look,” Catra says urgently—and quietly. “If Entrapta comes for us, we won’t know who she’ll get to first. If she finds you, you can contact me with that. And if she finds me, I’ll call you. And then we’ll meet up and go home. Okay?”

Adora sets her jaw and nods. 

“Good,” says Catra, then captures Adora’s wrist in a grip that looks much tighter than it actually is. “Now, tell me how wrong the Horde is, and I’ll tell you that I knew that all along."

Adora doesn't immediately reply. She only stands there. Swallowing hard. Biting her lip. 

Catra shoots her a bitter grin. "C'mon, Adora. We have to give everyone a show, right?”

Adora's vision blurs with tears. 

“What if…what if you just come with me?” Adora asks with an aching sort of hopefulness. “Maybe we don’t have to do this. Maybe we’ll end up better off if we stay together—”

Catra’s grin fades. Stretching and curling downward into the strangest grimace Adora has ever seen. A frown that seems to be tugged down by weights, yet somehow forged in steel. 

“We can’t be sure,” Catra says, like it’s the worst thing she can think of, but also the only truth she can cling to. “This is all we know. This is the _only_ thing that we know works. We can’t risk it—”

Adora begins to cry, tears carving jagged lines through the dirt and sweat staining her cheeks. “But it is so much worse this way, Catra. It’s worse knowing all this and letting it happen and I _can’t_ —”

Her voice sounds splintered and childish to her own ears, but she can’t help herself. This is too much, more than Adora can take. She’s gasping air into lungs that won’t hold it, because this is wrong. This is all wrong—

Catra’s voice couldn’t possibly sound more wrecked, more torn. “Please, Adora. We have to do this.”

Adora chokes down sobs, trying to steady herself. Her whole body screams in resistance to this—this path, this rerun of her life that promises so much sorrow before anything good. And right now, she just can’t do it. She can’t bring herself to take another step down this road. 

“Then you do it,” Adora says, struggling to speak beneath a dense collection of tears, lodged like something hard and jagged in her throat. She glances disdainfully at the taser clipped to Catra’s belt, remembering how it was used the first time. “Electrocute me. Knock me to the ground. Just…”

She wipes at her eyes, willing herself to find some composure. 

“Just do it quickly, okay, Catra? But I really don’t have it in me to have this fight again.”

Catra’s eyes never leave Adora’s face as her hand fumbles for the weapon at her side, looking like she couldn’t be more horrified to recall what it was once used for. But Adora remembers, even if she doesn’t. Adora could never forget. 

Slowly—like she’s picking up a live explosive—Catra unclips the taser from her belt. She glances down at it, then back at Adora. Her mouth is open wide with speechlessness. 

Adora manages the barest of smiles. “We have to give everyone a show, right?” 

She tries to be playfully mocking—to sound as bitter as Catra did when she first said it—but it only comes across as resigned. 

Catra’s whole face seems to collapse in on itself. “I...I don’t want—”

She trembles as she tries to raise the weapon into some semblance of a threatening position, the electricity crackling bright green in response to her tight grasp. It reflects oddly across Catra’s blue-and-yellow eyes, causing the tears gathering around their edges to glow an almost sickly green. 

But she never moves it closer, never raises it further. It only hovers there, shaking in Catra’s hand. A snapshot of a moment that neither can stand to relive.

Though it’s enough, in the end. The sight of that weapon in Adora’s face is sufficient cause for Bow and Glimmer to strike out in her defense. They ride in on the horse that will soon become Swift Wind, firing arrows and magic at Catra as they approach. 

Just before Glimmer teleports Adora away, she looks back at Catra—writhing on the ground, so entangled in one of Bow’s nets. She stares back at Adora, giving just the barest of head shakes. Telling her to get going, to move along. To preserve their history as best she can. 

But Catra is also crying, beneath all that rope. They’d seem like tears of frustration to anyone—a result of her endless struggles to extricate herself from Bow’s net. But Adora knows better. Those are tears that mirror her own. Tears of heartbreak, of loss, of _hurt_. 

Though Glimmer doesn’t let them stare at each other for long. Her hands find Adora’s shoulders and, in a blink of sparkling magic, Adora is teleported away from Catra.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora and Catra make small talk. 
> 
> Catra goes for a totally expected swim.
> 
> And Princess Prom somehow gets even gayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so blown away by the number of reviews that last chapter got! Please please please keep it up, I read and appreciate every single one. 
> 
> This chapter is a lot of fun (there's angst, but less of it). I know it's mostly just retellings of events in the series. Plot is coming...but I did say they'd relive their past, so that's what they're doing right now. 
> 
> Also this chapter gets a little spicy. This fic won't contain anything explicit, though.

Angella stares at She-Ra with a disbelieving, wide-eyed gaze. 

“It can’t be…” Angella murmurs.

They share a stare—a sentiment. A mutual feeling that their eyes are deceiving them. It’s been so many years since she last saw Angella, Adora has nearly forgotten how tall she was. How imposing, with those enormous white wings. How regal, with her perfect posture and queenly air. 

And how kind. How accepting she was of Adora, despite her history with the Horde. 

Adora strides forward, a golden glow emanating from She-Ra’s skin and hair with every step. It’s something of a struggle to stand tall—to keep her voice from trembling, to find the words she said the first time she met Angella, or something close to them. 

“Your majesty,” Adora says. “I’ve come to pledge myself to the rebellion.” 

Ultimately, those are the words that leave Adora’s lips. But they don’t say enough—not nearly enough. There are so many _other_ things she’d like to say. Apologies and pleas for forgiveness. Warnings of what is to come. 

_I am so sorry_ , Adora wants to say, _for the pain I’m going to cause you. For being unable to save you._

* * *

It’s moving day for Catra—the day she transfers her belongings to the Force Captain barracks. 

She doesn’t have much, but she keeps more than she did the first time. The old doodles on Horde-issued notebooks, the little notes written in Adora’s too-neat, blocky handwriting. The weird collection of toys Adora and Catra had accumulated throughout their childhood, constructed somewhat illicitly from scraps of metal and pieces of shredded fabric—the materials rescued from the trash piles outside. 

She tossed all these things away, the first time. Convinced that she had grown beyond them, especially with Adora gone. 

But now Catra looks at them with a strange fondness. In the future, these items have ceased to exist. Incinerated with the rest of the Horde’s trash, the lot of them. 

Only now does she realize how strangely precious they were, despite their apparent worthlessness. They’re the only physical evidence of the few _happy_ moments in Catra’s childhood. The written notes she exchanged with Adora—the ones that nearly got her into trouble during exams, she found herself so overcome with laughter. The funny little games they played together, in the absence of real freedom of fun. The toys they shared and held close when they felt most afraid. 

So this time, she keeps them. 

Small changes can’t make big differences, right?

They give her a new pillow too, but she keeps Adora’s. Discreetly exchanging it with the old one on Adora’s cot. (She did that last time too—not that she ever told anyone that.) 

And at night, just like the last time, she dreams that Adora lies beside her on that pillow, her nostrils searching for the barest whiff of Adora’s scent on the fabric. 

And yes. She knows it’s a little weird, maybe a little creepy too. But at least Catra is justified in missing Adora now. 

She can’t even remember the lie she told herself the first time, when she took that pillow. Maybe she convinced herself it was firmer than the one in her new room? Ha. Yeah, that was probably it. Catra had always comforted herself that way—claiming that she wanted what Adora had, not Adora herself. 

It was always easier to lie than admit her feelings, back then. But now it hurts so badly, having to hide them. Having to pretend that she is Adora’s enemy yet again, despite knowing what they truly are—married, in love, and missing each other. 

It’s all Catra can do, given the circumstances. Catra must lie in this bed alone—without her wife—until Entrapta rescues them both, or until they relive each and every moment leading to their future. 

Or their present. Whatever. 

That night, as Catra is drifting off to sleep in her new bunk, she swears she hears Adora’s voice from somewhere inside the room. Adora’s voice, same as always, calling Catra’s name with unmatched tenderness. 

But no—that can’t be right. Adora is in Bright Moon, and Catra is here, in the Fright Zone. It’s probably just a dream. A dream that’s far better than Catra’s current reality, probably. But a dream all the same.

“ _Catra_ ,” she hears again, muffled and staticky. 

Wait...

Catra sits up, eyes open. She presses her ear against the nightstand beside her pillow. And sure enough, there’s that voice again—coming from inside, its volume smothered by the metal that encloses it. 

The nightstand, she realizes with a jolt. That’s where Catra threw the communicator she had paired with Adora’s. 

Now frantic and fully awake, Catra throws open the drawer and fumbles for the device, yanking it into view and cradling it close to her mouth. 

“Adora?” she whispers hopefully. 

Static crackles from the small speaker contained in the communicator. And then, finally, Adora’s hushed voice returns, asking, “ _Did I wake you?_ ”

“A little,” Catra whispers, shrugging even though Adora can’t see her. “But that’s okay. What’s up? Has Entrapta found you? Are we going home?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Adora whispers back. “ _No. I just...I wanted to hear your voice._ ”

Catra falls silent for a few moments. “We’re not supposed to—”

“ _I know,”_ Adora says. “ _We’re supposed to be preserving the timeline and all that. But...it’s been a couple weeks now. And I really miss you._ ”

Catra bites her lip. This is a bad idea. She knows that. She knows that, ultimately, this will only hurt her more. Listening to the soft, sweet murmur of Adora’s voice despite a complete and utter inability to hold, totouch—

But still, Catra doesn’t refuse. She doesn’t hang up and demand that they continue the pretense of being entirely apart. Catra would be lying if she said she hadn’t considered initiating a call of her own. 

Whatever, she tells herself. Small changes can’t make big differences. 

“ _What did you do today?_ ” Adora asks, too-obviously just trying to make conversation. 

Catra chuckles bitterly as she settles back on the bed, placing the communicator beside her on the pillow. “Nothing fun. Got yelled at by Shadow Weaver a bunch. But I’ve been promoted, so at least I don’t have to do training exercises anymore.”

She hears Adora’s dismayed sigh. “ _I’m so sorry you still have to put up with her, Catra. Do you want to talk about it?_ ” 

Catra turns onto her side. “Not really. I know tomorrow it’ll be worse. Shadow Weaver will send me to Salineas to get you. And I’ll meet Scorpia for the first time.”

“ _Maybe it will be good to see a friendly face._ ”

Catra scoffs. “After knowing what I’ll say to her? Or how I’ll treat her? It’s gonna take everything I have not to burst into tears at the sight of her. She’s gonna be so nice. So friendly. So _hopeful._ And I’ll…”

Catra trails off.

“ _You’ll what?”_

“I’ll break her heart,” Catra finishes, finally. “She had a crush on me, back when we worked together in the Horde. And I always pretended not to notice. Or worse, I just blatantly rejected her. It hurt her. And now I’ll have to do it again.”

Adora doesn’t speak for a long time. Then, she asks, “ _Why didn’t you say yes?_ ”

Catra rolls her eyes at the faceless communicator, pretending that she’s rolling her eyes at Adora’s almost-jealous expression instead. “You know why.”

“ _I really don’t_. _I knew you two were close, but you never told me this—”_

“She wasn’t you, okay?” Catra interrupts. “That’s why I said no. Happy?”

“ _No,_ ” Adora admits. “ _All that means is that, by leaving, I hurt her too._ ”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“ _What?”_

“Taking responsibility for things that were my fault, not yours. I loved you, and I missed you, but that will never excuse the way I treated her. I know that now.”

Adora falls silent again, voice giving way to the soft crackling of the microphone. Catra sighs hugely. 

“That’s enough about me, anyway. What have you been up to?”

“ _Well_... _I talked to Razz a few days ago_.”

Catra raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“ _I figured that she’d know something about this. About time travel. Swift Wind and I always thought that she might have the ability to travel through time. That, or she’s very old and confused.”_

“Well?” Catra asks eagerly. “Did she have any advice?”

“ _I don’t know,”_ says Adora. “ _She seemed more incoherent than ever. Every time I tried to bring it up—traveling through time, existing in both the present and the past—she acted like she had no idea what I was talking about.”_

“Yeah, well,” Catra grumbles, excitement deflating. “Theoretical physics doesn’t really seem like her strong suit. If she _does_ travel through time, I don’t think it’s something she does on purpose.

Adora gives a disappointed hum. “ _You’re probably right._ ”

Another pause. And that’s the last thing Catra wants—for Adora to stop talking. She wants to keep listening to Adora’s voice for as long as she can. 

“Is that really all you’ve been doing in Bright Moon?” Catra taunts. “God, you’re boring.”

She can almost hear Adora’s smile. “ _As a matter of fact, I had my first slice of cake today. Well, my second first slice of cake. Glimmer and Bow were very excited to see me try it_.”

Catra laughs softly. She remembers trying her own first slice of cake, after Bright Moon was rebuilt. How eager Glimmer, Bow, and Adora were to see Catra bite into a pastry made by the world-renowned Bright Moon kitchens. The Horde’s factories produced only ration bars. And sure, Catra had confiscated (or more accurately, ate) plenty of foods from conquered rebel territories, but never something that rich or decadent. 

She almost passed out, it was so delicious. She’d never imagined that food could taste so good. 

“I’m very jealous. You know, it hasn’t been easy—going back to ration bars.”

_“I know. Maybe you could sneak into Bright Moon, and I’ll steal some for you—_ ”

“That’s pushing it, Adora. We’re already pushing it now. If someone saw us, they’d think you’re a spy. And then—”

“ _I know_ ,” says Adora with some exasperation. “ _The timeline falls apart._ ”

More silence. More static. Tiredness weighs on Catra’s eyelids and it’s almost unbearable, having this conversation in a bed that she doesn’t share with Adora. But it’s somehow more unbearable to _not_ do this, to cut all ties and live without the barest note of Adora’s voice. 

“We should probably get some sleep,” Catra says. “I love you, Adora.”

_“And I love you, Catra_.”

The static abruptly cuts to absolute soundlessness. Or as much soundlessness as can exist here, in the Fright Zone, despite the distant whirring and clanking of Horde machinery. 

Catra knows that it’s silly—the way she reaches out and pulls that communicator to her lips, imagining that she’s kissing Adora’s forehead instead. But she’s so upset, so on the verge of tears, that she can’t even bring herself to feel embarrassment. 

* * *

Catra perches on the broad face of the sword, leaning forward until her face is mere inches away from Adora’s. 

It’s truly an impressive display of Catra’s balance—to sit so casually on the surface of a raised weapon. But of course, it’s always been distracting. How lithe, how agile Catra is. Even when they’re pretending to be enemies. Even when they really were enemies. 

“You know,” Catra teases—and this time it actually sounds like a tease, rather than an insult, “the tiara actually gets stupider the more I look at it.” 

Adora’s mouth twitches into a smirk, but she forces the corner of her lips downward. She’s not supposed to be enjoying this. She’s not supposed to be happy to see Catra again. 

But she is. She is _so_ happy to see Catra after weeks of being apart. It’s the only thing she’s thought about for days. _Salineas_. That was the first word that entered Adora’s head this morning, upon waking in her enormously empty bed in Bright Moon. _Today I’ll see Catra._

And truthfully, Adora always hated the old tiara. Her future tiara is better—styled after Catra’s mask so that it actually affords her face some protection in battle...unlike this uselessly heavy circlet of gold on her head. 

“Catra,” Adora says. “How did you find me?”

It feels stupid to ask when she already knows. Shadow Weaver. Shadow Weaver is watching her—tracking her every move. The thought makes Adora want to shudder, but she refrains. It’s not something either of them can afford to change. 

“Happened to be passing by on a boat ride,” Catra tells her casually. She then puffs out her cheeks—like she’s about to throw up. “And you know how I feel about boats.”

This time, Adora can’t resist a smile. “You’re not supposed to tell me that.”

“Small changes, remember?” says Catra, winking. And then she raises a claw. Her voice is hushed when she orders: “Hold up your gauntlet.”

Adora does as she’s told. Catra’s claws clang and scrape loudly against the metal, easily blocked by those plates of gold. 

Catra flips off of Adora’s sword, landing somewhere behind Adora on the cliff. That graceful movement—just like the rest of Catra’s movements—is quite distracting. Distracting enough that Adora loses control of her magic, her connection with the Sea Gate wavering dangerously. 

A spike of energy surges through Adora’s body. It’s painful. Painful enough to force a hoarse cry from Adora’s throat, her sword dipping toward the ground. 

“Jeez—sorry, sorry!” Catra whispers frantically, a foot stumbling forward to help. “Are you okay?”

With trembling arms, Adora lifts the sword until it’s level again, eyes trained straight ahead—toward the Sea Gate. She groans with effort, one eye closed to keep herself from seeing double. “This takes...a lot more concentration than I remember.”

“What should I do?”

Adora scoffs. “Well, you can’t just stand there. You’re supposed to be attacking me.”

Catra hesitates. “It’s not easy.”

Adora grunts, vision speckled from the mental strain of this near-impossible repair. Her whole body feels sore from standing here for so long with her arms raised. “It’s not easy being attacked, either.” 

Catra sighs. And then, with the smack of feet against stone, Catra is surging toward her. Claws swipe against her gauntlet on the left wrist, then the right. Lightly skimming her back too, but never plunging deep enough to do much more than slice holes into the fabric. Catra is being far gentler this time than the last—refusing to leave a real scratch, let alone a permanent scar. 

She abruptly appears beside Adora, curling a steadying hand around the wrist that holds the sword. 

“I’m going to punch you in the stomach,” Catra whispers urgently. “Get ready.”

Adora gives the slightest nod, inhaling deeply and tightening the muscles in her abdomen. When Catra’s fist makes inevitable contact, she exhales sharply and lets She-Ra’s tough muscles—rather than brittle ribs or soft organs—absorb the force of the blow. 

It barely hurts. She sinks to her knees for show more than anything else. Catra, on the other hand, entirely genuine as she gasps and clutches at her own hand, stumbling back a few paces.

“What?” Adora says. “What’s wrong?”

“Your abs are _really_ hard,” Catra hisses between her teeth. “I definitely bruised my knuckle. Maybe even broke it.”

“Sorry!” Adora whispers. “I can heal it, if you want. But I’m not supposed to know how to do that yet—”

Catra shakes her head, muttering, “There’s no time.”

Catra’s positions herself at Adora’s back, then wraps her undamaged hand around Adora’s cheek.

The first time she did this, Catra’s grip was forceful. Almost painful as it clutched at her, squeezing her and stifling her breath. But this hand is gentle. Pressing firmly into her skin, yes, but with no pressure from the sharp tips of Catra’s claws. A thumb trails a bit too tenderly across her jaw, in particular. 

Adora wants to lean into the touch. But she can’t. She knows there are appearances to keep. 

There’s a roar of water somewhere off to the side. Mermista, probably, coming to She-Ra’s rescue. Catra hears this too, and she groans at the sound. 

“This is gonna suck,” Catra mutters. 

Adora knows what Catra means. Soon, Mermista will knock Catra into the water to free Adora from her grasp. But Catra hates the water. She hates it more now than her past self ever did, thanks to some truly horrific tortures inflicted on Catra by Horde Prime. 

“I’m sorry,” Adora says. She dips her head until her lips brush against Catra’s palm. “Just hold your breath and stay afloat. Scorpia will come to get you.” She presses another kiss into the heel of Catra’s hand. “I love you.”

She hears Catra make a small, agonized noise. But then Mermista and Bow are there, firing water in Catra’s direction—and she flies into the ocean with a horrified shriek and a splash. 

And Adora is left alone, cheek tingling from the cold sea breeze that has suddenly replaced Catra’s hand. She closes her eyes and wills herself to fix the Sea Gate—to heal the damage wreaked by the Horde and the elements and the passage of time itself. 

Eventually, she succeeds, and she’s surrounded by her friends—Bow, Glimmer, Sea Hawk, Mermista. Embracing her, congratulating her on a job well done. But it feels so wrong, celebrating without Catra. Catra, who—in the future—is every bit the member of the Best Friends Squad that Adora is. 

She glances back only once, at Catra. Scorpia is dragging her through the water toward a stretch of dry land in the distance. With the Horde boat destroyed, they’ll be waiting for hours—maybe even days—for transport home. 

Catra looks half-drowned and miserable, staring up at Adora with what could only be described as bitter longing. Adora bites her lip at the sight. She’s tempted to dive in after her, timeline be damned. 

But doesn’t. She can’t. 

She can only let the story repeat.

* * *

“It is my solemn duty as hostess to now announce...it is time for the first dance of the ball.”

Adora is already there—waiting on the dance floor—when Catra arrives. Colorful lights flash as Catra sneaks behind her, her tail teasing along the swell of Adora’s exposed calf.

Adora spins around to locate a culprit just as Catra pivots to the spot directly in front of her. When Adora sees no one behind her and twists back around, Catra is there—an awaiting hand outstretched, lips curved in a smirk. 

Adora smiles back at her, albeit briefly. The first time, Adora seemed so irritated by the prospect of dancing with Catra. Groaning and complaining the whole time. But now she only seems eager to take Catra’s hand, to pull Catra close and sway with her to the music. 

A lot of bad things are going to happen soon—Glimmer and Bow’s kidnapping, the theft of She-Ra’s sword, Entrapta’s supposed “death.” But Catra would be lying if she said she hadn’t looked forward to this for the past month. There are only so many things a girl _can_ look forward to, given Catra’s circumstances.

And one of those things is dancing with her wife. Or rather, the person who will someday become Catra’s wife— _if_ they don’t monumentally screw up the timeline, that is. 

“I don’t know about you,” Catra drawls, remembering the words from the first time, “but I am having a blast.”

Princess Prom. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since their little pretend-fight at the Salineas Sea Gate. And as fun as it’s been to let Adora chase her around all night—with Adora trying to “find out” what Catra is up to despite knowing every detail—Catra has really been waiting for _this_. This chance to hold Adora in some capacity, even just for half a song. 

And Catra’s not the only one who feels that way, if Adora’s tight grasp on her waist is any indication. 

“I never told you the first time, but—” Adora’s eyes trail all the way from Catra’s feet to the halfway unbuttoned collar of her dress shirt. “You, wearing that suit? Completely unfair.”

Adora tugs their hips flush as they circle each other. Which she _definitely_ didn’t do the last time, otherwise Catra would’ve bitten her own tongue off mid-snark. 

“You think I had an easier time with you in _this_?” Catra retorts, gesturing wildly to the back and arm muscles revealed by the form-fitting, high-necked dress. 

“Yes,” Adora says. Eyes half-lidded. “I think you did.”

They’re leaning a bit too close together, noses almost brushing, breath ghosting over each other’s lips—

But then Adora is spinning away, toward a new partner, as the dance requires. Catra is less than kind to her own new partner—all but hissing in her quest to get back to Adora as soon as possible. But she knows that Adora will have to dance with Glimmer, then Perfuma, then Glimmer again before Catra can have another turn. 

The wait is agonizing. A series of dances with strangers, some of which she vaguely remembers from various functions in Bright Moon, but none that she actually feels comfortable dancing with. 

Finally, Catra can return to Adora. She lets herself fall backward against Adora’s shoulder, craning her neck to nuzzle toward Adora’s jaw. Adora places a hand on Catra’s shoulder, and Catra reaches up to cover it with her own. 

She grinds a bit too conspicuously against Adora’s hips. Adora lets out a surprised gasp—almost a whimper—that quickly transforms into a grunt of annoyance. 

“Catra,” she says warningly. “Keep it appropriate.”

“I’m just trying to have a little fun.”

“If people see—”

“What, like we _didn’t_ have sexual tension the first time? Trust me—people are gonna notice either way.”

Catra swings herself off of Adora’s shoulder, leaning forward to clasp two supportive hands around Adora’s back. She remembers how Adora looked the first time Catra leaned in that close—mouth parting in surprise, wide eyes glancing down to Catra’s smirking lips. Catra didn’t dwell on it much then. She probably should have. 

This time, when Catra dips Adora, she expects it. Welcomes it, even. She all-too-easily falls back into Catra’s arms, both hands gripping firmly at Catra’s shoulders. 

Catra would really like to stay here forever. Looking down at Adora’s half-lidded eyes and smiling lips. Catra can almost imagine that they’re attending one of Bright Moon’s ridiculous celebratory balls together, indulging in a couple dances before deciding to sneak off to their bedroom, as usual.

Simpler times, Catra thinks ruefully. 

Smile morphing into a mischievous smirk, Adora lifts her knee higher into the spot between Catra’s legs, pressing firmly. 

“H-hey,” Catra gasps, despite an all-too-familiar heat pooling in her stomach. “Keep it appropriate.”

Adora won’t stop smirking up at her. “Just returning the favor.” 

Catra huffs, “Hypocrite,” then swings Adora back to her feet. Trying not to look too flustered—or upset—by the loss of Adora’s knee between her legs. These weeks of time-travel-induced separation have really wrecked Catra’s sense of self-control

...not to mention her libido. 

“So,” Catra continues, eyes flitting between the guests around her—and then to Frosta, sitting on her throne, looking equal parts bored and disagreeable. “How are we gonna do this?”

Adora is smirking again when she whispers, “Trust me. I have a plan.”

“Oh?” says Catra, raising an eyebrow. “And what is this ingenious plan of yours?”

Adora clears her throat and gives her own shoulders a little shake, as though preparing herself for a fight. “Just...hold still. This might get a little rough.”

Yet another sentence that Catra does not need to hear, deprived as she is. 

“Alright,” Catra agrees. “Let’s just get this over with—”

Though all coherent thought evacuates Catra’s mind when Adora shouts and _surges_ forward—tackling Catra with the full force of her strength, propelling them both forward. 

Catra expects to smash into an ice sculpture like last time. Or maybe even a wall, given Adora’s unstoppable, almost savage momentum—

But then she feels Adora easing up, hands curling into Catra’s jacket so that she can yank them both backwards, lessening their speed with an opposite force. 

Catra’s back still collides with an ice sculpture somewhere behind her, but the impact is light—hardly enough to knock the air from Catra’s lungs, and certainly not forceful enough to cause the ice to shatter.

Though Catra is still left breathless—but not because of any sort of collision. It’s Adora. The sight of Adora absolutely _looming_ over her—pinning Catra to the face of the ice sculpture, hands curled deeply into Catra’s jacket. 

She tugs Catra upward by the lapels, forcing Catra’s spine and rear to slide unpleasantly against the ice at her back. 

Adora lifts and lifts, stopping only when Catra’s feet are dangling in the air. Only then does one hand release Catra’s jacket. It curls into a fist—the knuckle aimed at Catra’s face, the elbow drawing back to a spot just beside Adora’s head. 

Catra’s eyes go wide, incredulous that _this_ was what Adora had in mind.

Catra flinches as Adora’s knuckle comes close to her cheek, but it diverts slightly at the last second—landing instead on the rock-hard surface of the ice sculpture beside Catra’s ear. 

There’s a shattering of what sounds like glass. A large portion of the sculpture—specifically, the portion beside Catra’s head—utterly crumbles beneath the immense strength of Adora’s fist.

“What did you _do_ to him?” Adora demands loudly, feigning anger in that all-too-obvious way of hers. She again twists her free hand into Catra’s lapels, using her renewed grip to lift Catra even higher off the ground. 

People are gasping. Staring. Pointing at them. Frosta is already on her feet, striding toward them with a fury. 

Catra knows that she should say something. Shoot back a taunt, the way she did the first time. But she can’t. She can only stay there, staring at Adora—glancing a bit helplessly at the taut muscles of Adora’s arms and the heaving of Adora’s chest. 

Catra swallows thickly. So _this_ was Adora’s plan? To tackle Catra, deadlift her, pin her to an ice sculpture with one hand, and then shatter a two-foot-thick mass of ice with a single punch?

Catra swallows again. Okay. 

Adora clears her throat, glancing pointedly at Frosta—who’s still on her way over. 

“Tell me what you did with him right now!” Adora shouts. She shakes Catra a bit as she says it, as though trying to break Catra from a trance. 

_Bow_ , Catra recalls somewhat slowly. _She’s talking about Bow._

“Stop purring,” Adora hisses—quietly enough that only Catra can hear. “You’re supposed to be intimidated.”

Only upon having it pointed out does Catra notice that she has, in fact, been purring. 

“Intimidated,” Catra mutters. “That’s a word for it.”

But then they’re knocked to the floor—Adora and Catra both. Though Adora is the only one who ends up trapped, her body surrounded on all sides by enormous shards of ice—a jagged, frozen prison of Frosta’s creation. 

“Revered hostess,” Adora begins pleadingly, “she’s got a—”

“Princess Ball is a ceremony of unity,” Frosta seethes. “Violence is strictly forbidden.”

Catra forgot how... _severe_ Frosta was, back when they first met. In the present—future, whatever—Frosta is a fairly outgoing teenager. One of the most competitive and fun-loving princesses Catra knows (though Netossa still takes the prize for most competitive). It took Catra years to properly gain Frosta’s trust, but once she did, she found that Frosta much appreciated Catra’s mischief-loving, devil-may-care attitude. 

This Frosta doesn’t seem to care about anyone, though. Adora, least of all. 

“You don’t understand—” Adora protests, just as she’s supposed to. 

“I understand perfectly,” Frosta interrupts her. “As hostess, in accordance with the rules set down over the centuries, I hereby _revoke_ your invitation. You are to leave my kingdom and never, ever re—”

And then, right on cue, Scorpia’s heat bombs begin to wreak their havoc, causing the entire palace to rumble and shake. 

Explosions go off one by one—popping like bright red fireworks across the room. Catra was very specific to Scorpia about where she wanted the explosives planted (though she refused to explain her reasoning). The bombs would only target pillars up high, or the zones far behind the snack tables. Locations that seemed unlikely to contain bystanders when the bombs went off.

Princesses and guests scream and begin to flee. Frosta is escorted away by her attendants, presumably to safety. 

“Glimmer!” Catra hears Adora call. And of course, Catra finds Glimmer in the crowd, standing only a few feet from Adora’s prison of ice. 

“Catra has Bow,” Adora tells her. “You have to find him _now_!”

Glimmer’s brows pull together in determination, and in a flash of pink sparkles, she has disappeared. 

When Catra looks back at Adora—still trapped—she notices the fresh trail of tears streaming down Adora’s cheeks. Catra climbs to her feet and presses a hand against the ice, despite how bites at her fingertips. 

“Adora?” Catra asks tentatively. 

Adora wipes an arm across her eyes. Her voice is frantic, horrified when she says: “I can’t believe I did that. I’m leading her right into a trap—”

“It’s not your fault. We can’t change what’s already happened.”

“But Shadow Weaver’s going to hurt her. _Torture_ her.”

“I’ll make sure that it’s nothing serious,” Catra assures her. “I promise. Glimmer’s my friend too. I don’t want to this to happen either, but we have no choice—”

“I know,” Adora says fiercely, like she can’t stand to hear any more. She reaches up, pressing her hand against Catra’s through the ice. “I know that. It just...it never gets easier.”

“I know,” Catra says. 

There’s more rumbling. Catra looks up to see a nearby pillar collapsing, teetering right in their direction. And Catra really should’ve remembered this from the first time. 

“And speaking of…” Catra says, springing to her feet. “Duck and roll!” 

Adora does as she’s told, and when the pillar comes down—smashing through the ice with a groan—it manages to miss Adora’s body entirely. 

Catra has already rolled several feet away when Adora emerges from the rubble, covered in a dusting of frost but otherwise unharmed. 

“Meet me on the roof!” she calls to Adora, then begins sprinting down the hallway. 

“Catra, _wait_ —”

Heavy, frenzied footsteps pursue Catra as she turns the corner. She would love to slow down. Truly, she would. But Scorpia is already on her way to retrieve Catra from the party, and if Catra is to have a proper moment alone with Adora, they’ll need to speed things up.

The large chunks of ice strewn across the floor begin to glow and lift into the air, raised by the sheer force of Frosta’s magical power. Frosta must be devoting her full attention to repairing the destruction—reassembling her castle bit by bit, restoring each wedge of ice-rubble to its original location within the architecture. 

Catra scrabbles up a pillar, claws finding purchase in the ice. Then, with a forceful extension of her legs, Catra is catapulting forward and up—onto a particular chunk of ice that floats upward, toward the roof. 

She catches her breath as the ice makes it journey, glancing downward to verify that Adora is still pursuing her. 

Catra isn’t disappointed—though she never really is, in Adora’s case. Adora seems to be doing fine, having secured her own floating platform of ice. It too floats toward the roof, just like Catra’s.

Though Catra gets there first. She steps off the ice, then spins around so that her toes are curling over the edge of the stone roof. When Adora’s chunk of ice conveys her to the same height, Catra is standing at the ready—waiting for her. 

Catra’s hands shoot forward. Her fingers twist into the silky skirt of Adora’s dress, and then, with forceful yank and a somewhat indignant yelp, Adora and Catra are falling backward, onto the cold stone of the roof, where no one can see them. 

Catra has a talent for keeping her balance, but right now, she doesn’t want to. They tumble roughly across the floor, lips interlocked in the most desperate kiss Catra has ever experienced. Tongues searching for lost time somewhere in the caverns of each other’s mouths, lungs gasping like breathing is a continued afterthought. Adora’s hands grasping at Catra’s jaw, her hair, dragging downward toward Catra’s rear and squeezing firmly. 

Catra’s own hands end up plunged somewhere beneath Adora’s skirt because, really, there is no thought more tortuous than this. Adora in a pretty dress—a skirt, in particular—thighs clenched beneath Catra’s legs. Catra’s fingers instinctively begin to rub up and down those thighs, causing Adora to shiver beneath her. 

“C-cold,” Adora gasps. “Your hands are really cold.”

“We’re in the Kingdom of Snows,” Catra snorts. “Of course my hands are cold.”

Catra leans back in to trail searing kisses down Adora’s neck, knowing that her own mouth will be warm, even when Catra’s fingers will require a bit more shared body heat to be properly heated up—

Beneath the dress, Catra thumbs the waistband of Adora’s underwear

“Catra,” Adora murmurs, sounding hesitant—her grip on Catra’s body slackening. 

Catra stills her own wandering hands with an agonized groan. Because she knows. She _knows_. But she also wants this so badly—

“We don’t have time,” says Adora. “I’m sorry, but…”

“I know,” Catra says hoarsely, pulling her arms out from under Adora’s skirt. “Scorpia is on her way.” 

Adora nods. “We’re supposed to be fighting.”

Catra chuckles bitterly. “Like we didn’t fight _because_ we wanted to fuck.” 

Adora rolls her eyes at her, then lifts a hand to Catra’s cheek, caressing it ever so gently. Gone is the desperate, needy Adora who was rolling on the floor with Catra only moments ago. Now Adora’s being all _mature_. 

“I _really_ miss you,” Adora says. “And I really want you too. But if someone sees—”

“I know,” Catra says again. “The timeline goes to shit.”

Catra sits up, scooting backward off of Adora with a dejected sigh. She heaves herself to her feet, then extends a hand for Adora to take. 

Adora does, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress as she stands. She glances outward, past the edge of the roof, and gives a sigh of her own. 

“Didn’t we fall off this roof last time?” Adora asks. 

Catra nods nonchalantly. “Yup.”

“Great,” says Adora sarcastically. “And I suppose we’ll have to do it again if we want Scorpia to find you?”

“Yup.”

“Fantastic,” Adora mutters, yet again sarcastic. She clasps a hand around Catra’s lapel once more, dragging her forward while tugging a butterfly-shaped hairpiece from her ponytail—the one Adora used as a grappling hook the last time. “Just another day in the life, I guess.”

They’re standing so close to the edge now. Adora leans forward for a brief kiss—the kind she often requests for luck, rather than pleasure. “You ready?” she asks Catra.

Catra nods wordlessly. Because, of course, instead of a sexy hookup on a palace roof, they’re going to have to send themselves plunging off a one thousand foot drop. 

Adora takes a deep breath as she glances over the side one last time. “The things I do for the space time continuum...” she mutters furiously. 

And then she pulls them both over the edge. 

* * *

“Here,” Catra says, holding a cup of water to Glimmer’s lips. “Drink this.”

Glimmer only glares at her, wary eyes flitting between the cup and Catra’s earnest gaze. 

She clearly doesn’t know what to make of it. This Glimmer hasn’t spent much time with Catra yet—she’s only seen Catra’s few encounters with Adora at Thaymor, Salineas, Princess Prom. And obviously, Catra wasn’t at her best in those moments. She was busy pretending to be a vicious Horde soldier—intent on dragging Adora back to the Horde. 

Glimmer doesn’t know Catra. Not yet. 

Though she will grow to hate her soon. Once Catra attacks Bright Moon. Once Catra opens the portal that takes Angella’s life. 

Only their mutual entrapment aboard Horde Prime’s ship will bring them something close to an alliance. And only later—when Catra decides to sacrifice herself for Glimmer—will that alliance finally turn to friendship. 

Glimmer’s whole body is surrounded and held by tendrils of Shadow Weaver’s dark magic. And of course, it can’t be comfortable, the way she’s been forced to sit. Kneeling on the concrete floor, arms suspended horizontally to either side. 

Catra hates this. She wants to smash Shadow Weaver’s head against the wall. She wants to tug Glimmer free of these restraints. 

But Adora is coming, Catra reminds herself. Adora will rescue Glimmer and Bow—will convey them both to safety. 

“C’mon, princess,” Catra says, giving the cup of water a little shake as she draws it closer to Glimmer’s lips. “You should keep up your strength.” 

Glimmer hesitates yet again. But eventually, wariness gives way to thirst. She leans forward to drink, gulping water down until the cup is entirely empty, not a single drop remaining. Catra carefully tips the cup as she goes, careful not to overwhelm her with the water, but careful not to deny her any either. 

Once the cup is drained and dry, Glimmer pulls back—squinting at Catra in confusion. 

“Why are you being nice?”

Catra resists a scoff. Oh, how wonderful it would be to explain. To tell Glimmer exactly what happened—to reveal the time travel and the portal and the countless other details of Catra’s life beyond this—and that secretly, Glimmer and Catra are actually best friends in the future. 

But she can’t. She shouldn’t even be doing this—showing Glimmer a kindness that she didn’t show the first time. It’s just that… Catra couldn’t help herself, seeing Glimmer so broken and helpless on the floor, captured in Shadow Weaver’s cruel grasp. Catra had to do something. Even if that something was only something small. 

So, when Shadow Weaver exited the Black Garnet chamber for a war meeting, Catra snuck inside. A cup of water in hand. There wasn’t much else she could give. 

Catra gestures vaguely to the electrical tendrils of magic that hold Glimmer in place. “This...it’s not pleasant. I know how it feels.”

“Yeah,” Glimmer says, like she’s heard this all before. “Adora told me. Shadow Weaver hurts you. Abuses you. Why don’t you let me go? We’ll both escape to Bright Moon, and you can be free of her—”

“I can’t,” Catra interrupts, dismissive. _Not yet, anyway_. 

“Why not?”

“I just…can’t. I’m sorry.” 

“But you _can_!” Glimmer insists, desperate. “Adora did it. You can do it too, and then you can join her in Bright Moon. I can tell how much she misses you—”

“I can’t!” Catra nearly yells, crumpling the now-empty cup in a fist. “So don’t ask me again.”

Glimmer sighs in defeat—in hopelessness—and averts her gaze from Catra’s tortured, conflicted eyes. 

“Shadow Weaver’s going to try to provoke you,” Catra says, hoping to change the subject to something more...productive. “When she comes back, I mean. And if she provokes you, that gives her a reason to hurt you. Don’t give her a reason. The things she says—they’re almost never true. So don’t listen. And stay quiet.”

And of course, Glimmer is staring at her again—lips parted in utter disbelief. She can’t believe that Catra is giving her tips on how to survive Shadow Weaver’s tortures. Catra is supposed to be her enemy. Catra is _determined_ to be her enemy, despite Glimmer’s tempting pleas of defection. 

“You won’t be here long, anyway,” Catra mutters, to herself more than anyone else. “Adora will come for you.”

Adora always rescues her friends, eventually. 

But it will be a long time before Catra can be rescued from herself. 

* * *

“Take it,” says Catra. 

Alarms blare. Red lights blink. Beside Adora, Glimmer is breathing hard, body half-collapsed against a nearby railing. 

Catra holds the sword out to Adora, twirling it until the hilt is within Adora’s reach. It gleams menacingly in the flashing red lights, and never before has the blade looked so insidious to Adora’s eyes. 

“This is not because I like you.”

The last time, Catra averted her eyes when she said those words. She stared at the floor. At the railing. At anything but Adora. But now, seems almost determined to hold Adora’s gaze as she says them. Maybe even seems like she might cry if Adora looks away. 

There’s an entirely different meaning behind those words too, this time. A meaning contained solely in Catra’s eyes, the ones that stare at Adora so pointedly, so desperately. 

_This is because I love you_.

Adora extends a hand, her fingers brushing lightly over Catra’s as they exchange custody of the sword. And truly, Adora can hardly resist the urge to drop the charade. She wants to toss the sword to the ground. She wants to pull Catra into her arms. She wants to smash the Fright Zone to pieces and never again lay eyes on the rubble.

But she can’t. 

So Adora raises the sword and turns into She-Ra. 

And Catra disappears. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora wakes up sore. 
> 
> Catra gets lost during a hike.
> 
> And Catra and Adora actually fight while _pretending_ to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for blood mention this chapter, and some spiciness...(again, nothing explicit). 
> 
> technically, I've written nine chapters of this fic so far, so my prediction of this being 11/12/13 chapters seems fairly accurate? unfortunately, I'm gonna keep posting one a week because editing takes time and ya girl is a perfectionist with sleepy bitch disease. 
> 
> anyway, thank you so much for the comments thus far! comments mean the absolute world to me and they definitely keep me going, so please keep it up!

Adora ducks beneath branches and vines, slipping between bushes—shoving leaves out of her eyes. The beacon blazes bright white in the distance, seeping through the curtain of trees like blood oozes from scratched flesh. 

The light glares into Adora’s eyes with almost painful intensity, beckoning her toward a place she has no desire to go. A place that will fill her head with lies and manipulations, the same way the Horde once tried to do. 

And yet despite knowing this, despite fearing it, she has no choice but to trudge forward. No choice, none at all, because really, what choice has she _ever_ had in any of this?

Adora knows her role. Knows her destiny. 

She knows that she must follow that light if she’s to have her first meeting with Light Hope. Or, more accurately, her _second_ first meeting. Being stuck in the past makes everything so complicated. 

Not that Adora exactly _wants_ to meet Light Hope, considering what she knows about Light Hope’s ulterior motives. Namely, that she intends to activate the Heart of Etheria—and use Adora as a means to fire it. 

But...there are some perks to this little visit to the Whispering Woods. One, in particular. 

Adora finally reaches the clearing that surrounds the beacon. And it’s always been strange-looking, this part of the woods. This glade of dark, perfectly-level purple soil—interrupted only by sparse patches of green grass and huge, gnarled tree roots. 

And at the center of it all, the First Ones temple that acts as She-Ra’s training ground. The Crystal Castle. A towering monument of sleek, pale crystal. It cuts through the sky like Adora’s sword slices through metal. 

Adora hovers at the treeline, not quite ready to approach. She doesn’t trust this place—this castle that will only seek to trick and control her. It nearly forced Adora to destroy the whole universe, once upon a time. 

So she stays here—at the treeline—keeping her distance, plunging her sword into the soil so that she won’t be forced to hold it in the meantime. 

“Catra!” Adora yell-whispers, glancing between the shadow-stained tree branches. “Catra! Are you here?”

There is only silence. Only stillness. Which means that Adora is still alone here, in the Whispering Woods. 

At least, that’s what she assumes—right until a chin dips over Adora’s shoulder, a mouth whispering, “ _Hey, Adora_ ,” directly into her ear. 

Adora jumps about a foot in the air at the sudden contact, whole body tensing to flip the intruder over her shoulder—

But no. She recognizes that voice. Recognizes those arms, curling around her stomach—those lips, pressing lightly into Adora’s jaw. 

Adora gives an indignant huff. “Did you have to scare me like that?” 

Catra places both hands on Adora’s shoulders and spins her around so that they’re facing each other. Catra’s grin glints mischievously in the half-light of the woods. 

“Sorry,” Catra says, though it hardly sounds like she means it. “Just wanted to keep you on your toes.”

Catra reaches out, taking Adora’s face into her hands. Her thumbs trail across Adora’s cheeks with a soft, lingering sort of touch. 

Catra’s eyes flit in the direction of the Crystal Castle, which still glows at the center of the clearing. “So...are we gonna head inside?”

She sounds about as eager as Adora feels. Which is to say...not eager at all. 

Their joint trip into the Crystal Castle only brought them anguish the first time—only drove them farther apart. And really, Adora isn’t up for reliving old memories. Not again. Not now. Not when she relives old memories every single day, in this endless wait to be rescued from the past.

“What’s the point?” says Adora. “It’s not like there’s anyone around to see what happens in there, except for maybe Light Hope. And I doubt she’ll care if I’m late, so long as I show up and claim that I’ve ‘ _abandoned my worldly attachments’_ or whatever.” 

Catra snorts. “And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Have you abandoned your worldly attachments?” 

Catra’s thumbs move closer together, until they’re both brushing along Adora’s lips. 

Adora smiles as she fully appreciates the sight before her—Catra, real and here and hers. Eyes gleaming fluorescent blue-and-yellow in the semi-darkness of the trees. Whole body leaning toward Adora, so lithe and casual and effortlessly graceful. 

Catra is just _so pretty_. She always was, always will be. All knowing smirks and defiant eyes framed by long eyelashes. A dusting of freckles across each cheek, skin made soft by a light coating of hair. 

Adora misses this so much. Misses _her_. 

“Not a chance,” says Adora, stepping forward—closing whatever distance remains between them. There isn’t much. But there will be, soon enough. 

Adora’s lips sink into Catra’s. And truly, that’s how it feels. Like she’s sinking. Floating. Escaping. Like she’s falling into a warm, comfortable bed after days of carrying a heavy load. Like she’s dropping to her knees after years of being forced to stand perfectly upright, free at last.

Adora knows what they’re supposed to be doing. They’re supposed to be sprinting through the halls of the Crystal Castle, forced to rewatch their most painful childhood memories together. And then, at the end of it all, Catra is supposed to _literally_ leave Adora hanging off a cliff. 

Adora doesn’t want any of that. Doesn’t _need_ any of that. She’s more than happy to let that moment of her past evaporate into nothingness. 

All she wants is this. The soft rumble of Catra’s purring. The hot breath pouring into Adora’s mouth. The body squeezing against her own, close—so close—but not quite close enough. 

It’s going to get so bad, so soon. The Battle of Bright Moon is only a couple days away and that, at the very least, they will have no choice but relive. It’s a critical moment for the two of them—and the Horde and the Rebellion both. 

The Whispering Woods will be devastated. Catra will suffer a humiliating defeat. And a domino effect will follow, causing all of Etheria to tumble down a hill of increasingly worse decisions and circumstances. 

But for now, they have this. This one good thing in the face of a million brutal, unbearable moments that are certain to arrive. 

For now, they are finally, truly, _blissfully_ alone. 

And Adora is not prepared to let that go to waste. She will gladly give up the Crystal Castle for this. This chance to be happy for the briefest period. This chance to forget the horrors to come. 

It is almost easy to do that—to forget—as they both sink into the dirt. Falling to their knees, sprawling on the ground. Gasping each other’s names. Peeling layers of clothing bit by bit, until there’s nothing left to protect them from the cold or the breeze or the damp soil where their feet once stood. 

For a moment, Catra hesitates. “Are you sure—?”

“Yes,” Adora says. Instantly. Impatiently. Dead leaves crinkling as she tries to get comfortable on the forest floor, so rough and strange beneath her. 

Of course, she wants this. To be completely honest, it’s all she’s thought about since Princess Prom.

“But Light Hope...you _are_ supposed to start training with her—”

Adora shakes her head fiercely. “I’ll go in the morning.”

“Adora,” Catra says dubiously, in the way she always does when Adora does something risky. 

Adora trails Catra’s naked side with the back of her hand. She intends it to be reassuring. Comforting. Confident. But the ceaseless trembling of Adora’s hands gives her away. 

She feels so unsteady these days. Afraid of everything. Afraid of _losing_ everything. One wrong step and the whole future falls apart, and it’ll be her fault—

“It’ll be okay,” Adora says, despite how much she fears the alternative. Despite how much she might be deluding herself. “It’s not like I need training, anyway. I remember it all from the first time.”

Catra sighs. “But…”

“I know,” says Adora. “You’re just trying to preserve the timeline. I get it. I am too. But I think we deserve this, after so long apart. Don’t you?” 

And truly, it’s been so long. They used to lie in the same bed every night. But now Adora is lucky to even get a glimpse of Catra on a battlefield. And in the moments in between, Adora has nothing but the crackle of Catra’s voice over the communicator, or the memories of her touch—

Catra is quiet for a moment. And then, slowly, she mutters. “Small changes…”

“...can’t make big differences,” Adora finishes for her. 

And truly that has become their mantra—the only thing keeping them sane in this repeat of past that would otherwise destroy them, if they kept each and every moment exactly the same.

The world dissolves. Present, past, future—all of it fades in favor of this. Grasping hands and gasping sighs. Parted lips and hot breath and wet tongue. The cool air on Adora’s bare skin, in the places where Catra’s body doesn’t rock against hers. The legs that twist and writhe in the dirt, knees scraping over rocks and sticks as they press close, so close, closer than two people have ever been—

No one else will see. No one else will hear. The sight of them is lost in the shade of the trees. The sound, too, hidden by the trilling of strange insects and animals in the branches above. 

But Adora can see. She can see, and hear, and _touch_. 

And so she tries to memorize it all. All of it, every single moment, so that she has something to remember in the days that follow—when she’ll inevitably find herself sleeping alone. 

* * *

Dawn burns pale yellow through the canopy above. Birds chirp overhead, whistling high, peaceful notes that envelop the entire woods in tuneless music. 

Catra wakes curled against the cushion of Adora’s chest, nose filled with the scent of pine needles and damp leaves and _Adora_. Her head rising and falling with Adora’s every sleeping breath. 

Adora’s discarded jacket has been thrown over her. She recalls, vaguely, Adora pulling it on top of them before they both drifted to sleep. Though the effort was largely wasted—Catra’s skin is still dotted with goosebumps, her limbs stiff and aching from the cold. 

Beneath her, Adora begins to stir. Sighing softly as her arms tighten around Catra’s back. 

Catra glances up, inspecting Adora’s disheveled state with a degree of satisfaction. That messy halo of blonde hair, so knotted with leaves and rocks and sticks. Smooth skin, glowing pale pink in the blooming daylight.

No one should look as pretty as Adora does after a chaotic hookup on a forest floor. And yet...

As Catra watches and admires, Adora’s eyes begin to squint open. Her sleep-blurred gaze finds Catra still in her arms, and the smile that spreads across Adora’s lips is so beaming and pleased and contagious, Catra can’t help but smile in return. 

“Catra,” she murmurs, sounding so incredibly relieved. Adora’s hand reaches down to thread fingers through Catra’s sleep-mussed thicket of hair. A purr rumbles through Catra at the gentle touch. 

“Hey, Adora,” she greets. “Sleep well?”

Catra was mostly joking when she asked—knowing that last night’s sleep was more of an afterthought than a priority—but Adora still nods enthusiastically. 

“Probably the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. You?”

Slowly, Catra nods as well—realizing that she has also struggled to sleep soundly, back in the Horde. Though Catra has never really slept peacefully without Adora beside her. 

Adora shifts beneath her, wincing a little as she does. Her other hand plunges into the crevice between her back and the ground. She yanks something out from under her—a large piece of tree branch, gnarled and sharp—and tosses it away. 

Adora groans as she settles back down. “Though I really do miss sleeping in our bed. My back is going to be _so_ sore.”

“Sleeping on sticks and rocks will do that.”

Adora smirks. “Lucky you, then. Getting to sleep on top of me.”

Catra shrugs in a gloating sort of way. “Being small and cute has its benefits.”

Adora hums her agreement, then turns her head toward the clearing beyond the treeline—where the Crystal Castle’s beacon continues to blaze white, glaring a harsh counterpoint to the subdued daylight. 

Adora’s smile slips as she stares, and Catra can all-too-easily guess at what she’s thinking. 

“Light Hope is waiting,” Catra says, vocalizing the thought that torments them both. 

Adora nods again, though with far less enthusiasm this time. Her grip on Catra tightens further—an unwitting refusal to let go. 

Catra kisses Adora’s collarbone. “You should probably get going.”

Catra says it because it’s true, not because it’s what she wants. She would much prefer to lie here with Adora all day, lazy and happy and together. Especially when Catra considers the certain alternative—the Battle of Bright Moon, and all its ensuing devastation. 

“I don’t want to,” Adora tells her quietly. Almost hopelessly. “But what I want...it just doesn’t matter, does it? It never has.”

“It _does_ ,” Catra tells her fiercely. “It matters to me. It matters to everyone who cares about you. But this situation...it’s complicated. It’s making us pick between the future we want and a chance to rewrite our past—”

Adora scrunches up her eyes as though pained. “I know. I _know_. I’m just...I don’t want to go in there. I don’t want that stupid sword and I don’t want to be used and I…”

She exhales deeply. “I’m tired, Catra. I want to go home. To _our_ home, our Etheria—the peaceful one that we built together. Not this war-torn version of it.”

“I know,” Catra sighs. “Trust me, I know. I want to go home too.”

“But there’s no choice,” Adora says, defeated. “Not really.”

Catra can’t say otherwise, so she stays silent. 

Adora is nodding again, like Catra’s silence is the argument that proves her point. “Let me up,” she says, blinking to stave off tears. “I need to get dressed.”

With reluctance, Catra disentangles her legs from Adora’s and rolls away, onto the cool earth beside her. She feels strangely exposed, sitting here like this—naked in the dirt. But she feels equally unwilling to dress herself. She’s convinced that starting the day will somehow make Adora’s departure all the more real, all the more imminent. 

Adora rises to a kneeling position, turning away from Catra as she searches the ground for her shirt and pants and undergarments—the ones that Catra tore from her last night, and tossed to the dirt in crumpled heaps. 

Catra stifles a little gasp at the sight of Adora’s back. She knows Adora’s body well. A thousand times, her eyes have admired the muscles that swell in Adora’s shoulders, or traced the perfect posture of her spine.

And more than anything...Catra knows Adora’s scars. Knows them in every curve and color and line of raised flesh. 

This is the first time that Catra has really, truly seen Adora’s back since arriving in the past. And truly, she can’t believe it. It’s stunning—how utterly _unmarked_ it is. Unscratched and unblemished. Untouched by the sharp tips of Catra’s claws. 

Catra has wasted endless hours of her life staring the scars on Adora’s back—wishing, desperately, that she could somehow unmake them. But right here, right now, there’s no need to wish for anything. Adora hasn’t fallen victim to Catra’s claws yet. She is healthy and whole and unhurt by Catra’s cruelest impulses.

Adora glances back; catches her staring. Raises an eyebrow too. “Something wrong?”

Catra shakes her head, as though shaking herself from a nightmare. A nightmare where Adora’s body was a canvas for Catra’s most savage artistry—her most violent outbursts of claws and fists and kicks.

“Nothing,” Catra mutters, hoping to sound flippant. “Just admiring the view.”

Adora chuckles softly as she pulls on the rest of her clothing. Her hair is the final step, as always, and Adora’s deft fingers are quick to arrange a neat, poofed-up ponytail. 

Moments pass in a blur as Catra stares blankly at Adora. She’s almost startled to suddenly discover Adora kneeling beside her, holding out Catra’s clothes—also collected from wrinkled heaps on the ground. Catra takes them, nodding in thanks as she reluctantly begins to dress herself. 

By the time she’s fully clothed, she finds Adora at the treeline, the sword clasped in a white-knuckled grip at her side. Eyes affixed to the castle in the distance. Catra approaches her slowly—like Adora might evaporate into thin air if she draws too close too quickly. 

“So this is goodbye for now, I guess,” says Catra. “Next time I see you will be—”

“The Battle of Bright Moon,” Adora finishes for her. Her voice is dark and dread-laden. 

Catra nods. Adora only keeps staring straight ahead. 

“I better go in,” Adora says, unenthused. She begins to surge forward, stepping urgently—like she’s trying to reach the castle before her resolve crumbles entirely.

Catra knows that she shouldn’t distract Adora further. That she shouldn’t delay her meeting with Light Hope. But she can’t help herself. Her arm shoots out, snatching Adora’s dangling hand and giving it a less-than-gentle tug backward. 

A gasp escapes Adora’s throat as she stumbles and spins back into Catra’s arms, landing squarely in Catra’s embrace. Catra’s lips are right there, waiting for her as she tugs Adora down by the jacket—ensnaring her in a bruising, aching kiss. 

It lasts for longer than Catra even intended. And she knows. She _knows_ that she can’t keep Adora here for much longer. Light Hope really has waited for long enough.

So Catra releases a very dazed-looking Adora—lips popping and chests heaving as they pull apart—and then pushes her forward, toward the castle. 

“Sorry,” Catra says, but she doesn’t mean it. “Just wanted to give you a better goodbye this time.”

Adora snorts and steadies herself. “Better than what? Leaving me dangling off a cliff?”

Catra rolls her eyes. “Well...yeah. You know I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry about what?” Adora asks, eyes glinting mischievously. “Technically, you haven’t done anything. Not anymore.”

Catra blinks at that. She knows Adora meant it as a joke, but... 

Catra never pursued Adora into the Crystal Castle. Catra never betrayed her, never left her dangling from that cliff. 

And yet they’re still talking about it. She can recall every detail of that moment—the sword hurling into the abyss, the tears in Adora’s eyes, the desperate crying of Catra’s name as she walked away, pretending that she no longer cared.

“But...why do we still remember it, then?” Catra wonders, confused. “If it never happened?”

Adora blinks, considering for a moment. “I don’t know, Catra. It’s _time travel_. Nothing about it makes sense unless you’re Entrapta.”

“But still...it’s kinda strange, don’t you think? That we remember something that never happened?”

Adora snaps her fingers excitedly, as though suddenly hit by an epiphany. “Maybe we _remember_ that we remembered it, and that’s why we still remember it now.”

Catra scratches her chin. “So you mean that our memories can’t be changed, but the present—I mean the _past,_ or whatever we’re currently living in—can, so we’re going to end up remembering two totally different pasts that are somehow linear in our memories based on how we traveled between them?”

For a moment, Adora only stares at her, blinking. Then she groans and rubs her temples. 

“You know what?” she says. “Nevermind. We’ll just end up giving ourselves a headache, trying to understand this time travel craziness. Let’s just keep going. We can figure this out later.”

Slowly, Catra nods. Though she’s not so easily convinced. She feels like this is important, somehow. More important than the Crystal Castle, or the Battle of Bright Moon, or everything in between or before or after.

“Love you!” Adora shouts with a wave, beginning to jog forward—away from Catra. She calls the words from over her shoulder.

Catra’s own wave feels weak and hesitant. “Love you too,” she manages, hoping that it’s loud enough for Adora to hear.

* * *

With Adora gone, Catra knows that she should head back to the Fright Zone. But she can’t bring herself to do it. Not yet. 

Instead, she decides to spend some time wandering the Whispering Woods. 

In the future, it’s a hobby of hers—hiking. It was something Perfuma suggested a long time ago. Connecting with nature, learning to be at peace with herself, and whatever other tranquil nonsense Perfuma spouted at her. 

But she started to like it, in the end. The quiet moments of independence and contemplation. The serenity of bright sunlight and the cool whisper of a morning breeze. 

Though Catra has never hiked much through the Whispering Woods. It was just too close to home, she always claimed. Too boring and everyday. Why would she hike through the woods next door when she could hike over the cliffs of the Crimson Waste?

But truthfully…Catra has always been a little afraid of the woods’s magic. Afraid of the foliage that changes of its own accord. Afraid of the odd creatures lurking within the shadow of the trees. 

Now, getting lost seems like a minor, barely frightening concern in the face of the all-out war she’ll be waging in a matter of hours. And really, how could Catra get more lost than she already is, trapped in the wrong time period? 

Besides, with how much Catra has been forced to repeat the past, it would be nice to discover something new for herself. There are still so many parts of the woods that Catra has never explored. Places and moments that she won’t have to relive or revisit. 

Everything else in this past...she’s seen it all—lived it all—before. And yes, she knows that it has to be this way if they’re to preserve their future. But Catra still craves something new. A new sight, a new place. An experience that isn’t just a repeat of a memory. 

So she sets off, circumventing the Crystal Castle and traveling beyond it. She pushes through the thick foliage, climbing over branches, jumping from tree to tree. Startling birds from their nests and swatting bugs out of the air. 

It’s fun, at first. A good stretch of Catra’s muscles. A sweet moment of freedom from the Fright Zone—freedom from smog and cramped hallways and whirring factories. 

Though after several minutes of hiking through the woods, Catra notices that she may be going in circles. No matter how she presses forward, no matter how she tries to walk in a straight line, the rocks and the plants lining her path all look familiar. 

This isn’t entirely unexpected for the Whispering Woods—it’s known for such tricks, after all. But now that she’s paying better attention...now that she’s closely examining her surroundings...she thinks there might still be something even stranger going on. Strange, beyond the Whispering Woods’s usual level of strangeness. 

She definitely recognizes this part of the Whispering Woods. That giant mushroom. That curtain of vines. That small grass-filled clearing. 

She’s almost sure that she’s in the part of the woods by Erelandia—where the rebels first set up camp during Horde Prime’s invasion. But obviously, that doesn’t make sense. Erelandia is nowhere close to the Crystal Castle. And sure, the Whispering Woods is known to change its trees and vines a bit, but would the woods really redo its entire geography just to confuse Catra? 

Acting on an impulse, Catra darts to the side, rather than forward. She throws herself between trees and vaults over brushes. When she finds a large enough gap to stand in, Catra glances around—examining her new location. 

It’s another part of the woods Catra recognizes. The woods by Elberon, where Catra once set a trap for She-Ra. There are wildflowers here that she has only ever seen near Elberon, and over there—the clearing where she once sent a bot to battle She-Ra. 

But that’s also wrong. Or at least, it _should be_ wrong _._ Elberon is on the complete opposite end of the woods, closer to the Fright Zone than to the Beacon. And it’s especially far from Erelandia. 

Catra darts through the trees again. She sprints for several minutes, pushing through the undergrowth until she finds another clearing. One that looks different from the last. And though it seems impossible, it’s still someplace she recognizes. 

When Catra was still their enemy, Bow and Glimmer once took Catra hostage and sought to take her to Bright Moon. She didn’t make the job easy for them. In fact, Catra was probably the worst hostage in the history of hostages. Scratching and biting and insulting all the while.

This part of the woods... this was where Catra tricked Glimmer and Bow into letting her go. Glimmer pinned her to that tree—that one, right there. The tree with all-pink leaves and a trunk wider than Catra’s body.

This place shouldn’t be here, though. It’s too close to Dryl. Dryl, which is nowhere close to Erelandia, or Elberon. Catra is no expert in geography, but she thinks she knows enough about Etheria’s landscape to realize that something isn’t right. 

Catra shakes her head. She shouldn’t get ahead of herself. This is why she never wanted to hike through the Whispering Woods. There’s simply too much magical screwiness. Too many ways to get lost. Maybe the woods are transporting her magically—teleporting her the same way Glimmer does? 

Or more likely, maybe Catra just isn’t remembering right. 

Either way, this was a stupid idea. 

Catra climbs a tree until she can poke her head through the canopy. Sure enough, when she reaches the top, she spots the beacon in the distance—a beam of white light shooting from the Crystal Castle. She just needs to follow that beacon to find her way back to where she started, and then she should be able to follow her own steps back to the Fright Zone.

Hopefully, the Woods won’t try to trick Catra on her way home. She’s suffered enough confusion today. 

* * *

Adora listens to Light Hope talk of destiny—of relinquishing her attachments to her friends. 

But all she thinks about is how wrong she is. How much stronger she is, with all her attachments. How her attachments saved the universe when nothing else could. 

She remembers the kiss at the Heart. The one that allowed her to turn into She-Ra, to activate the failsafe, to save the world. She remembers the moments after—rebuilding Etheria, exploring the universe, enjoying the peace afterward. 

She remembers lazy weekend mornings with Catra in her arms, free from the pressure of impossible destinies and expectations. She remembers the cheers of her friends at her wedding. Perfuma tossing flower petals over them. Catra’s lips pressing against hers, giddy laughter echoing in each other’s mouths. 

She thinks of Catra, somewhere in the Fright Zone. Preparing to attack. The Battle of Bright Moon on the horizon. 

Light Hope is wrong. Adora’s attachments are the only things that matter. The rest of this—destiny, fate, power, glory, whatever else—it’s just noise. 

And yet Adora can’t escape them. Not yet. As she sits here in the Crystal Castle, Catra walks the halls of the Fright Zone. Planting the seeds of war that will grow into the Battle of Bright Moon.

“Adora,” Light Hope intones. “Are you paying attention?”

Adora turns. There are images projected into the air all around her. Glimmer and Bow, unconscious on the floor of the temple in Mystacor. Glimmer alone, held captive by Shadow Weaver’s magic. Catra, glaring with utter betrayal as she turns away from Adora. 

And then, finally, Entrapta. Asking for more time as her hair flits between the buttons on one of the Fright Zone’s control panels. 

“You feel guilt at these memories,” Light Hope observes. 

She…what?

Adora blinks, confused. She feels guilt at _some_ of these memories, sure. The memories of Glimmer and Bow, in particular. But the rest of them?

She misses Catra—wishes desperately for their future together, rather than this painful past. But she wouldn’t exactly call that guilt. Longing, maybe. But not guilt.

And Adora certainly isn’t guilty about Entrapta. She knows that Entrapta is alive and well in the Fright Zone—happily constructing weapons for the Horde—even if the rest of the rebels don’t. 

It’s like…

It’s like Light Hope can’t see Adora’s memories of the future. 

But how does that make sense? They’re only memories, just like all the other memories in Adora's brain. So why are they treated any differently? 

Adora wonders. Maybe it’s yet another rule of time travel? Maybe only those who’ve been to the future can recall what happens there? Or maybe computer systems just don’t know how to process memories from events that haven’t happened yet? 

She wishes she knew—wishes she understood. 

But she supposes she should be grateful, if anything. That Light Hope can’t see what truly Adora knows and feels. 

* * *

Bit by bit, the pieces fall into place. Again. 

Entrapta comes up with the idea to boost the Black Garnet’s power, siphoning energy from the other runestones. 

Hordak gives Catra permission to act on Entrapta’s idea, allowing her to use the Black Garnet as she pleases. 

Shadow Weaver attacks her, refusing to relinquish her power to Catra, of all people. 

It’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating—having to battle Shadow Weaver again. Dodging tendrils of shadows and excruciating bolts of electricity. 

But she can’t say it isn’t just as satisfying. She can’t help but smirk as she swipes her claw across Shadow Weaver’s mask, shattering the crystal she uses to tap into the Black Garnet’s magic. 

Shadow Weaver falls to the ground, screaming, lamenting the loss of her power.

And all Catra can think is this—that it’s what she deserves. That Shadow Weaver deserves far worse punishments than she ever received. For what she did to Catra. To Adora. To Micah. To Glimmer. Everyone she ever touched, she poisoned. 

* * *

Lightning crashes overhead, bathing the ground below in red light. It looks like nighttime, the skies are so dark. 

Adora is trying to fight this battle exactly as before. Pressing the same advantages, letting herself take the appropriate hits. She finds the same tank as the first time and allows herself to get blasted off her feet—the Shield of Protection flying from her grasp, splashing into some distant section of the lake. 

And then, as Adora staggers to her feet—shaking off burns and soreness and a pounding heartbeat—she hears _that_ voice. 

“Hey, Adora.”

Adora glances up to see Catra, of course. One hand on her hip, body so casually perched on the hull of a tank. The very tank that just knocked Adora to the ground. 

Catra raises a challenging eyebrow at Adora. Smirking with such malice that, if she didn’t know better, Adora would think that Catra really, truly intended to tear her apart. 

“Catra,” she replies tersely. 

This time, they don’t waste time on banter or pleasantries. As far as the timeline will ever know, Catra never betrayed Adora in the Crystal Castle, so there’s no use in discussing it here. They might as well get on with the fight. 

Though Adora knows that this will be harder than their other so-called “ _fights_.” Their encounter at Salineas was nothing more than a single punch, a few light scratches. Even the fight at Princess Prom was largely private—easy enough to skip in favor of a secluded kiss. 

But this? This fight needs to play out for everyone to see. A clash of titans for the Horde and Rebellion both. 

Adora charges toward the tank with a bellow. Once she’s close enough, she jumps—both fists raised—and smashes the full force of her strength into the spot just beside Catra’s feet. 

Catra dodges easily, though Adora would have missed regardless. The metal screeches and crumples beneath Adora’s fists as Catra launches herself up and away, onto a rock suspended in the air by magic. 

Her landing is clean, graceful, and oh-so-casual. When she straightens, she seems largely bored—staring down at Adora like she’s watching a fish struggling through a current. 

Catra’s claws extend. Again, she utters no taunts. No insults. She is silent as she leaps from the high ground, claws cutting violent slashes through the air. 

She misses, just as Adora did. On purpose. 

When Catra lands, it’s right by Adora’s side. She raises a claw for another strike, but it’s slow—so much slower than Catra usually is. Adora is able to block it easily with her gauntlets, as well as catch Catra’s arm with her other hand. 

Gripping Catra’s wrist tightly, Adora pulls her in close, until their noses nearly touch. Catra hisses and bares her teeth at Adora, incisors flashing sharp and vicious. 

Adora almost flinches. She just can’t summon the same kind of visible hostility. Adora is a terrible actress—always has been, always will be—and Catra is so much better at this. Better at pretending to be enemies. Better at pretending to hate each other.

But then Adora realizes...maybe Catra was pretending all along. Even during the first Battle of Bright Moon. The only difference now is that she’s unwilling to hurt Adora...whereas last time she was all-too-happy to do so. 

But still, they need to put on a show. For the Horde. For the Rebellion. 

“Spar,” Adora grits out, between clenched teeth. She barely moves her lips to form the words, speaking them directly into Catra’s face so that no one else overhears. 

Catra’s gaze is steady as she gives the slightest of nods. 

Thanks to the nature of the Horde’s training curriculum, Catra and Adora spent much of their childhood sparring together. They’ve always known how to fight without truly injuring each other—it was only once Adora defected that their battles became maiming, bleeding things. Swiping claws and bone-shattering blows. 

Even after the war, Catra and Adora still spar when the mood strikes them. To test their each other’s skills—to make sure they don’t fall entirely out of practice. Though in the future (present, _whatever_ ) their mock battles never seemed to last long. They always end up distracted by meetings, or diplomatic missions, or their own irrepressible laughter. 

Or, more often than not, either Catra or Adora would start shucking their clothes to initiate an entirely different type of sparring session. 

(Which Adora really, really shouldn’t be thinking about now. She needs to _focus._ )

Adora’s grip slackens, and Catra catapults herself from Adora’s side—flipping and twisting midair. She soon crouches some distance away, ears twitching in preparation for another attack. 

Catra smirks. She’s waiting for Adora to strike first, as usual.

It’s something of a dance, what follows next. She-Ra throwing punches, Catra leaping out of the way. Climbing over rocks and cliffs as they fight—throwing out kicks that always miss, but only barely just. 

She does her best to indicate her next moves before they happen, and Catra watches carefully—oftentimes anticipating the move well before Adora’s efforts to give them away. She dodges and pivots at all the right times, occasionally throwing out a claw—only for the nails to retract just as they make contact with Adora’s skin. Adora feels only the brush of blunt fingertips in their place. 

When they spar, that’s always Catra’s way of saying that she would have successfully scratched Adora, had the fight been real. Now, it’s her way of saying that she doesn’t want to scratch Adora at all. 

But it won’t do. Not now. If Adora comes back from this fight completely unscathed, the Rebellion and the Horde will grow suspicious. 

They’re fairly high up now, and a sizable distance from the battle’s center. Adora glances around, ensuring that no one is within earshot, then turns back to Catra. 

“C’mon, Catra. If we want this to look believable, you need to scratch me up at least a little.”

Catra sets her jaw but doesn’t answer, swaying from side to side with her fists raised—ready to dodge whatever punch comes next. But Adora doesn’t throw one. She only looks at Catra pleadingly. 

“Catra, really. I’ll be okay—”

“No!” Catra shouts in defiance, then kicks Adora—hard—in the chest. Adora stumbles backward a few steps, jagged breath gusting from her lips.

“There,” says Catra, self-satisfied. “That’ll bruise. Good enough.”

Adora shoots her an incredulous look. “Barely. And not anywhere people can see.”

Catra shakes her head fiercely. “I’m _not_ going to scratch you.”

“Why not?” Adora demands, bewildered. “It’s literally just a scratch—”

“It—could— _scar_.” Catra punctuates each word with a series of punches, each of which Adora easily dodges. In fact, it looks like Catra is starting to get sloppy. Relinquishing her usual calculated defense in favor of a desperate-looking offense. 

“So what? I have plenty of scars.”

Catra again stays silent, teeth clenched. 

“Catra—”

“Don’t you get it?” Catra blurts, nearly screaming. “I hate that I did those things to you. That I gave you those scars. All I’ve done for years is stare at them—those gashes on your back—wishing I could take them back. This is my _only_ chance—”

Catra’s voice dissolves into a sharp yell, her whole body trembling. It’s like she doesn’t know what to do with herself—doesn’t know whether she should attack Adora as they planned, or sink to her knees, or fall into Adora’s arms. 

Catra’s eyes keep glancing at Adora’s shoulders, neck craning for a look at the back covered by She-Ra’s cape. 

She realizes what Catra’s truly afraid of, then. This battle—it was where Adora received her worst set of scars from Catra. Gushing gashes, deep as can be. Bright red and jagged. 

Even years later, Catra cries in shame at the sight of them—still begging for Adora’s forgiveness, despite already having it. 

And now, she can’t bring herself to make them all over again. She can’t bring herself to repeat such a terrible act of violence against Adora. 

Adora lets her raised fists drop, just for a moment. Defenses entirely lowered. She stares at Catra with perfect evenness when she says, “They’re my scars, Catra. Even if you made them. It’s for me to choose whether I want them or not.” 

Tears gather at the edges of Catra’s eyes. “But I never gave you that choice.” 

“Well, this time you are. And I’m telling you that it’s okay—that I’ll be okay.”

Several moments of silence pass as they stand there, breathing heavily. Staring at each other across a short expanse of rock and dirt. Blaster fire and thunder rumbling in the distance, the ground shuddering beneath their feet with every explosion.

She sees Catra swallow. Her shoulders continue to shake. 

And then, with a strangled cry, Catra lunges forward. Extended claws glinting. Body blurring with incredible speed. 

Adora has no time to react. There’s a sharp pain along her jaw, brief but biting. She gasps rather than yelps, she is so surprised. 

Catra jumps back, examining her handiwork with a look of pure self-loathing. 

“There!” she hisses furiously, lips trembling. “You’ve got your scratch. But that’s all I’ll do. No more—”

Adora lightly touches a hand to her jaw, wincing slightly at the raw, tingling pain that results. Her fingertips pull away spattered with blood. Not a lot—just a small dribble. Barely enough to tell Adora that the scratch broke the skin.

“Happy now?” 

“Yes, actually,” says Adora, lowering the hand back to her side. “Now it looks like you’re actually trying.”

Catra snarls in annoyance, once again crouching defensively. “How much longer?”

Adora raises her fists too. “Not much. A few minutes. Just long enough to make this look real. Now don’t move—”

Adora charges toward Catra yet again, then plunges her fist into the rock just beside Catra’s head. A fissure spreads from the point of impact to the very top of the cliff somewhere above them. 

Catra smirks slightly from beside Adora’s fist, and Adora wants so badly to kiss her. 

“You’re repeating your moves.”

Adora smirks back. “At least you’re not purring this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, quick shoutout to my other two catradora fics in this pseudo-series:  
> \- _[the vanishing point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692152/chapters/59675914)_ , a catra character study (aka the pride and joy of my entire fanfic career, it's genuinely some of my best writing)  
> \- _[lucky jacket](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936499)_ , a sort-of-crackfic with too much plot about Catra unleashing chaos by destroying Adora's jacket. 
> 
> If you like my writing so far, I would super grateful to get some more eyes on them! (also if you've read them already, I love you ♥️)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora has a terrible idea.
> 
> Catra agrees to Adora's terrible idea.
> 
> And Catra breaks something of Entrapta's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note that this has an expected final number of chapters now!! there could be _one more_ if I have to split a chapter up, but if everything goes as planned, 13 seems to (ironically) be the lucky number
> 
> anyway, I'm consistently surprised and flattered by how much people seem to enjoying and interacting with this fic. Please keep it up! Even the shortest, most random comments make my day. 
> 
> so please enjoy this chapter that _technically has plot_...but is mostly just catra and adora being soft and yearning

She-Ra stomps down, stilling the bot’s oscillating camera with her foot. She leans in close to the camera—eyes gleaming bright blue and lips curved into a smirk.

“Hey, Catra,” she taunts—in a voice that is completely, unfairly seductive—and then smashes her fist into the bot, cutting the footage to static. 

Catra bites her lip and tries not to dwell on it. Really, it’s no different than what happened the first time. But it _feels_ different—the way Adora said those words. Especially now that Catra knows that there’s probably hidden meaning behind them.

With the Whispering Woods frozen over, Catra has sent a great many bots to attack Bright Moon. It’s not something she wants to do, but rather, something that she must. Her only comfort is knowing that they’ll be unsuccessful, just like the last time. Just like this time. Adora and the rest of the princesses destroyed Entrapta’s new bots with relative ease. 

Entrapta groans with disappointment—mourning for her beloved bots, now brought to a princess-induced grave. 

“It’s okay!” Scorpia assures them brightly. “We’ll get that tech next time, I’m sure of it!”

“You’re right!” Entrapta pulls out her notebook, already scribbling away at new weapon designs. “I’ll just make some slight modifications and they’ll be ten times as powerful—”

Catra is hardly paying attention, though. She couldn’t care less about the bots or the tech. And she _especially_ couldn’t care less about conquering Etheria. 

It’s been a whole month since the Battle of Bright Moon. That couple seconds of footage from the bot was the first time she’s seen Adora at all since then. 

Catra just wants this to end. She wants to be free of the past. She wants to return to her proper time, where she doesn’t have to spend every waking hour wondering when she’ll receive the barest glimpse of Adora again. 

But there hasn’t been so much as a sign from their friends. A portal hasn’t opened to rescue them. Entrapta—their Entrapta—hasn’t transmitted any sort of instructions on how to escape this nightmare. 

Catra has started to wonder if they’ve become irretrievable here. Their friends would never give up on them, Catra knows that. But what if the portal simply can’t be opened again? 

What if Catra and Adora must live their entire lives a second time to reach the future where they actually belong?

Catra can’t stand waiting anymore. She needs to know something, anything—

“Scorpia,” Catra says. “Why don’t you go check on Shadow Weaver for me? Make sure she’s not doing anything suspicious.”

Shadow Weaver, who currently sits in a Horde jail cell—just like before. Put there by Catra herself. And though Shadow Weaver is _probably_ up to something suspicious—already plotting an escape, most likely—Catra doubts that Scorpia will be able to see that. Catra honestly just needs Scorpia out of the room for a few minutes.

Scorpia stands and salutes, looking ecstatic to be of use. “You got it, boss!” 

She speeds out of the room, leaving Catra and Entrapta alone. Entrapta is still scribbling away at her Horde-bot modifications, hardly paying Catra any attention, she is so engrossed. 

“Hey, Entrapta,” Catra begins hesitantly. “This might sound kind of crazy but...do you know anything about time travel?” 

Slowly, Entrapta looks up from her notebook, tapping her pencil against her chin. 

Catra inhales deeply, bracing herself. Asking Entrapta about these sorts of topics can be a dangerous game. More likely than not, Entrapta will launch into a multi-hour explanation of the intricacies of time travel and her various theories on the subject. 

Though that’s what Catra wants, in this case. More information. Any information at all, really. There’s just so much that Catra doesn’t know. 

But to Catra’s utmost surprise, Entrapta only shrugs and returns to her scribbling. She sounds entirely unconcerned as she says, “Nope! Not really, sorry.”

Catra blinks at her. “Like...nothing _at all_ about time travel? Not even theories on how it works? 

“Nope.”

“B-but—” Catra sputters, “You love things like this! Science and weird theoretical stuff—”

Entrapta only shrugs again and shoots Catra an apologetic smile. “Guess I’ve never given it much thought!”

Catra squints at her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “But you give _everything_ a thought. Too much thought, if anything—”

“I’ve been a little busy if you haven’t noticed,” says Entrapta impatiently, pointing to her notebook with a pencil. “Don’t you want me to finish these modifications?”

“I...” Catra’s mouth keeps opening and closing, incapable of processing this. Entrapta just knows _nothing_ about time travel? And worse, she’s _okay_ with knowing nothing about time travel? 

No. No way. Entrapta doesn’t rest until she knows everything about everything. The Entrapta Catra knows would have novels written about the concept of time travel, and several more novels on the laws of physics that accompany it. She’d be positively itching to carry out experiments to test the rules and limitations of visiting the past, or the future. 

But this Entrapta...she couldn’t seem to care less. 

Maybe...maybe Catra had misjudged her?

“Right,” Catra concedes finally, swallowing her disappointment. “Keep working. I...uh...I shouldn’t have bothered you.” 

Catra slinks back to the Force Captain barracks. Once there, she slams the door tightly closed, then falls onto her bed with a grumble of frustration—pressing both palms tightly into her eyes. 

Catra still has no answers. No way to get herself or Adora out of this mess. And now she knows for sure that even Entrapta can’t help them. 

Which still strikes Catra as odd. The concept of time travel seemed to align so perfectly with Entrapta’s interests. And yet, she seemed wholly disinterested in this one idea, like it had never once crossed her mind. 

It just...seemed out of character to Catra. 

Maybe Entrapta was lying to her? 

But then again, what reason would Entrapta have to—?

Static crackles to life from somewhere within Catra’s nightstand. “ _Catra?”_ whispers a voice, from inside the drawer. 

Adora. 

Catra scrambles to pull the drawer open. She yanks the communicator to a spot directly above her face, holding it out in front of herself. She barely manages to keep herself from giving the stupid device another kiss. 

“Hey, Adora.” Catra can’t stop grinning into the communicator, she is so glad to hear Adora’s voice. “Long time, no see.”

“ _Didn’t you see me today?”_ Adora asks. “ _T_ _hrough the bot, I mean_. _I knew you’d probably be watching._ ”

“Yup,” says Catra with a laugh and an eye roll. “Just as obnoxiously flirty as the first time.” 

“ _That was the hope.”_

There’s a long, aching pause filled with static. They let it hang for several seconds before Adora says, “ _You got to see me, but I want to see you too_. _When can we meet up again_?”

“I know,” Catra sighs. “We’ll cross paths in the Northern Reach soon enough—”

_“No,_ ” says Adora. _“I want to see you—spend time with you. Not just pretend to fight you. I mean, it’s been over a month—_ ” 

“Maybe we could sneak off somewhere in the Northern Reach?”

“ _Doubt it. Bow and Glimmer and Sea Hawk will be with me, and you’ll be with Scorpia and Entrapta. If we go missing for more than a couple minutes, they’ll come looking for us_.”

“Then I don’t really know what to tell you, Adora. I want to see you too, it’s pretty much all I think about. But I can’t think of a safe way to—”

“ _Well,”_ Adora interrupts. _“Maybe we should consider a slightly less-than-safe place to meet up._ ”

Catra narrows her eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

* * *

Objectively, this is a terrible idea. Adora knows that. 

Catra knew it too, which is why she initially balked at the suggestion, claiming it was simply too risky—just as she did the first time that Adora suggested it. But the separation must be getting to her too—impairing her judgment—because it took only 24 hours for Catra to call Adora back and grumble her agreement. 

Now, Adora waits in her bedroom in Bright Moon. Sitting on the bed. Fussing with her hair. Leg bouncing impatiently. 

So Adora maybe...kinda... _totally_ asked Catra to sneak into Bright Moon. 

And yes—it is a really stupid, risky idea...but it’s also their only option. The Whispering Woods is still recovering from the Battle of Bright Moon, and remains frozen in many places. It’d hardly be a good place for a late-night rendezvous now. 

It’s also not like Adora can sneak into the Fright Zone—there are too many people around. There’s too much security too, and Adora would certainly get caught. 

Bright Moon’s security, on the other hand, has always been rather lax. That’s how so many people over the years—Shadow Weaver, Double Trouble, Scorpia, even Adora herself—were able to sneak onto the castle grounds so easily. The guards aren’t super vigilant. They rely too much on the protection afforded to them by the Whispering Woods, as well as the princesses’ power. 

And it’d be especially easy for Catra to sneak in. She spent years living in this castle with Adora, searching for secluded spots in the gardens or the courtyards. Spots that are nearly invisible to the naked eye, and largely forgotten by the guards’ patrols. 

Spots that Catra can travel between, in order to reach Adora’s room undetected. 

Adora jumps a little when she hears a sharp rapping at her window. Her head immediately snaps in the direction of the noise, and there, just beyond the glass, is a dark figure framed against the starless night. 

“It’s open,” Adora hisses to no one in particular, annoyed because she _knows_ she told Catra that it would be open. All Catra has to do is swing it open wide enough to slip inside. They’re supposed to be following the plan that they made last night—

The window doesn’t push open, though. Catra just knocks at the window again, and the dull echo of Catra’s knuckles against the glass strikes Adora as far too loud for this time of night. 

Adora rolls her eyes and hauls out of bed, marching over to the window. She yanks the window open with an exasperated sigh. 

“I told you,” Adora begins impatiently, head craning to see Catra on the other side, “the window would be o— _mphff_.” 

Catra’s lips immediately shoot forward to meet hers, effectively silencing Adora’s complaints. 

It’s a bit of a strange kiss to Adora, what with Catra leaning down from the waist-high windowsill. Adora is usually taller in all respects—whether she’s She-Ra or her usual self—so she’s rather unaccustomed to Catra leaning down to kiss her. 

It’s also a little bit thrilling, if she’s being honest. 

Catra takes full advantage of it too. Her body leans forward somewhat precariously, hands clinging tightly to the windowsill. She angles the full pressure of her weight toward Adora’s mouth, leveraging a pleasurable, intense sort of heaviness against her.

Catra’s tongue pokes playfully at her lips, teasing her, requesting entry, and she gladly parts them. Catra gives a little laugh as she leans forward even further, tongue swiping across Adora’s teeth and the roof of her mouth and wrestling with Adora’s tongue. 

Catra gets so lost in it she nearly topples off the window, and Adora is forced to grab her shoulders to steady her. Giddy laughter escapes them as Catra winds her arms around the back of Adora’s neck, squeezing them more closely together. 

Catra’s body is a cresting wave arched over her—ever-so-flexible, arms and legs straining against gravity just to have access to Adora’s lips. 

It’d be wonderful, Adora thinks, if Catra wasn’t about to fall off the window. Catra’s limbs tremble with the effort of keeping herself perched on the windowsill. And Adora fears that the noise of a person physically hitting the floor—particularly from that height— might be loud enough to wake _someone_ in the castle. 

Adora pulls back a little, freeing her lips to speak. She spends a couple moments admiring Catra’s lovely closed eyes and slightly breathless mouth, now separated from hers, and then places a thumb over Catra’s lips—

“Alright,” Adora laughs. “I know being tall is a nice changeup for you, but maybe you should get down? You’re about to fall over.”

Catra’s eyes fly open to glare at Adora indignantly. “Am not!”

Adora raises a dubious eyebrow, then pokes Catra in the side. Immediately, Catra releases a small shriek and flails, losing her footing in the face of being poked somewhere so sensitive. She topples forward with a gasp, falling directly into Adora’s waiting arms, her knees buckled and feet stretched backwards. 

Adora’s smile is smug. “You were saying?”

Air hisses between Catra’s teeth. “Show off.”

“ _Your_ show off.”

Catra’s annoyance seems to evaporate at the sound of that, twisted frown exchanged for a grin. She staggers to her feet, arms still wound around Adora’s neck for support. Their noses bump as they find themselves face-to-face yet again. 

“Guess what?” asks Adora, still smiling. She feels near-delirious with excitement. Love drunk and stupid, in the way the past never allows her to be.

“What?”

Adora lifts her lips to Catra’s forehead. “I missed you.”

Catra sighs, tucking her head against Adora’s chest. “I missed you too.” 

Adora lowers her arms to Catra’s hands, enclosing them within her grasp. She brings them upward first—pressing the fingers against her lips—and then steps backward, towing Catra toward the bed. 

Catra takes one look at the large, cushy mattress—overflowing with a mountain of pillows—and gasps with overjoyed surprise. 

“I thought you didn’t like this bed,” Catra says, releasing Adora’s hand to run a reverent hand over the covers. “At least, not yet anyway—”

Adora shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Decided not to get rid of it this time. Eighteen-year-old Adora might have liked sleeping on a rock-hard mattress, but twenty-five-year-old Adora knows what kind of back problems await her in the future.”

Catra squints at her. “But I thought you said that you missed this bed—”

“I said I missed sleeping in _our_ bed,” says Adora. “You and me, together. It’s the same bed, sure...but it’s not the same without you.”

And frankly, after Horde Prime’s defeat, Adora never would have switched from that tiny, Horde-imitation cot if Catra hadn’t requested it—having grown fed up with the stiff mattress and limited space. Especially when Bright Moon had been so full of luxurious alternatives. 

Catra had been far quicker to adjust to a life of comfort than Adora was. She insisted that they didn’t need to keep living like they did in Horde—not after everything. 

And so the big, once-destroyed, feather-filled bed made an eventual comeback, reupholstered and returned to Adora’s room. And with Catra sleeping by her side, Adora didn’t find the big bed quite so overwhelming anymore. 

(Not to mention that it _was_ actually better for Adora’s back).

Catra outstretches her arms and plops face-first onto the bed, sighing in relief as she sinks into the pillows. 

“Oh, I’ve missed this,” she quite literally purrs, rubbing her cheek against a velvet throw. “The beds in the Fright Zone _suck_.” 

Adora laughs and drops onto the bed beside her. It’s immediate and natural, the way they curl against each other. Bodies lying parallel, chests against the bed, legs and arms tangled together. 

Adora weaves a hand through Catra’s hair. Catra’s tail flicks tenderly across Adora’s thigh. And there’s an incredible rightness in this. Lying beside her wife, just like she’s supposed to be. Warm and loved and held. It fills something to the brim within her. Something that sits empty most days, here in the distant past. The drought-dried basin of her heart, finally drinking its fill. 

The bed shakes with Catra’s purring. Adora leans in and kisses Catra’s nose. Lightly. Softly. Just to feel Catra against her lips. 

“So I talked to Entrapta,” Catra says quietly, when Adora pulls away. 

Adora’s eyebrows shoot upward. “About what?” 

“Time travel,” Catra says. “All this waiting—it’s making me antsy. And I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask her about it. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Well, what did she say?”

“That’s the thing,” Catra tells her, shaking her head. “She said she didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“ _Anything_. She said she’d never given any thought to Time Travel. That she had no theories. No ideas. No way to help us—”

Adora frowns. “But that doesn’t sound like Entrapta.”

“I know,” says Catra. “But that’s what she said. Maybe...maybe she was lying to me?”

“But why would she lie?” asks Adora. “Entrapta loves when people ask about her theories.”

“Then maybe she’s telling the truth,” sighs Catra miserably. “Maybe she really hasn’t given it any thought. Maybe we’ll actually be stuck here forever.” 

Adora rubs the back of her hand against Catra’s cheek. “Please don’t say that,” she pleads. “Let’s just try to be hopeful, okay? That’s all we have right now. Maybe future Entrapta knows more about time travel than this one. Maybe she’s building another portal right now—”

Catra chuckles a little. “It’s a nice thought,” she says. And Adora can practically feel what she doesn’t say:

_But it’s not likely_. 

Catra turns onto her side, both hands reaching for Adora’s waist. She feels Catra’s fingers trail along the waistband of her pants. 

“So…” Catra says. “How do we know that Sparkles isn’t gonna teleport in on us?” 

It’s a valid concern. Back when Catra and Adora started dating, it took several embarrassing encounters to finally teach Glimmer to _knock_ rather than teleport directly into their room. 

But this version of Glimmer hasn’t yet learned that lesson. She could barge in at any moment, technically. Though Adora knows that she’s most likely asleep at the moment, given the late hour. 

Adora smiles a bit. “Glimmer likes to sleep in. So...as long as you’re gone by early morning—and I mean _early_ morning—we should be fine.” 

Catra wrinkles her nose. “Like...early, _early_ morning?”

“Yup.”

Catra groans. “You know I hate waking up early.”

Adora smirks and pushes her hips a little further into Catra’s grasp. “We all make sacrifices to get laid.”

“Oh yeah?” Catra challenges. “And what exactly are you sacrificing right now?”

“My pants, probably,” Adora suggests, still smirking. 

Catra bites her lip, lightly pulling Adora’s top from where it’s tucked, beneath her trousers. Her fingers dipping beneath the hem once it’s free. “Maybe your shirt too.”

“Also a possibility,” Adora agrees, forcing herself to sound only mildly intrigued—like they’re discussing a weather forecast and nothing more. “It’d be a real shame if I lost both of those things at once.”

“Right,” says Catra, scooting even closer. “Such a shame.”

“It’d be even more of a shame,” says Adora, running a finger down Catra’s side, tracing every curve with her eyes as well as her hands. “If you somehow lost your clothes too.”

Despite how she sighs—pretending to be oh-so-aggrieved—Catra steadily holds Adora’s gaze. “And yet, stranger things _have_ happened. Portals, time travel, alien invasions—”

Adora rolls her eyes at her. “So are you gonna undress me or not?”

For a moment, Catra only grins at her. Then, in one swift motion, Adora’s wrists are pinned above her head, her shirt pulled over her arms and then _off_ , flying somewhere beyond the bed in a heap.

“So impatient,” remarks Catra, before leaning down to kiss Adora more fully. 

* * *

Adora wakes Catra just before dawn. Whispering Catra’s name, lightly stroking Catra’s shoulders with her fingers. 

For a moment, when Catra opens her eyes, she forgets. She forgets where they are, _when_ they are. She imagines that this is a morning like any other. Another day where Adora woke her up too early, much to Catra’s pretend-annoyance. Another day filled with whatever Catra and Adora please. Another day empty of wars and strife and separation. 

But it’s as much a dream as the one that Catra just awoke from. They’re in the past, Catra remembers suddenly. And Catra needs to leave this bed— _their bed_ —before someone discovers her here. 

“Time to go?” Catra mumbles blearily, rubbing exhaustion from her eyes. 

Adora nods. The room is largely dark, but Catra can see her perfectly. Hair frizzed and spilled across her shoulders. Hands clutching a blanket to her bare chest, warding off the cold. 

Catra can see her goosebumps. The tension in her limbs. She wants nothing more than to massage it all away. To collapse back into the bed, asleep, enclosed within Adora’s arms. To wake only when the sun peaks in the sky, with the smell of breakfast wafting from the Bright Moon kitchens. 

It’s yet another dream. Catra doesn’t belong here, not yet. She needs to return to the Fright Zone. The Fright Zone, with its polluted air and stone-like beds. Its weapons and machinery and complete lack of anything soft or good or _Adora_. 

She needs to keep the timeline moving steadily forward. She needs to keep them on the right path, else they’ll never reach the future they miss so desperately. 

So Catra nods too and pushes herself up on her elbows. 

“Okay,” says Catra, still nodding. It feels like that’s all she can do. “Okay.”

Catra scrambles out from under the covers, collecting her clothes from the floor beside the bed. She tugs them on quickly. Precisely. All robotic, stilted movements. Listing the tasks in her head all the while. _Pull up your leggings, Catra. Now put your arm through the shirt sleeve, Catra._

She turns back to find Adora staring at her. She’s still upright, still covered by that blanket. Eyes wide. Chin jutted out in resistance to crying.

“I hate watching you go,” she murmurs. 

Catra plants one knee on the mattress and leans across the bed, balancing on both palms. Adora angles forward too—meeting Catra somewhere in the middle, lips colliding in the space between their bed and the real world. 

It’s something of an effort, suspending herself like this. Her muscles tremble and strain from the effort. But Catra doesn’t want to pull away, not for anything. Only ragged, gasping breaths can separate them in a moment like this, and even those are short and scarce. 

Catra just keeps diving in, inhaling more of Adora. Trying to hold enough of Adora in her lungs—between her lips—so that she can continue feeling something close to whole on the journey back. 

A spear of sunlight is what eventually breaks them apart—glaring through the window as a harsh reminder. The longer they wait, the greater the risk of getting caught. 

Adora’s face is still clutched between Catra’s hands. She stares at Catra with miserable longing, lips parted in a silent, speechless plea. Itching to make a request that’s totally impossible to fulfill. 

_Stay_. That’s what she wants to say. Adora wants to ask Catra to stay. It’s a favorite word of theirs. A word that fearlessly defines the best and worst parts of their relationship. 

But it can’t define them yet. This version of Catra and Adora—they aren’t supposed to know what it truly means. Not until later. Not until things get a lot worse.

Instead, Catra settles for something just as good, just as meaningful. Something that Catra can hold onto when there’s nothing else, least of all Adora—

“I love you,” she whispers, drifting slowly backward until she’s off of the bed entirely, hovering beside the window

“Love you too,” Adora mouths, the sound of her whisper swallowed by the growing distance between them.

The rising sun cuts across Catra’s eyes as she climbs down from the window, clinging to vines and protruding bricks and sinking her claws into stone wherever else she can’t find purchase. 

It isn’t until she reaches the ground that she starts crying. Catra is angry with herself for it—because really, it’s not like crying is going to change anything. And what is Catra crying about, anyway? She got what she wanted. She got to see Adora, got to sleep in her own bed for the first time in months. Isn’t that enough?

But as she sinks against the wall of the castle, collapsing onto the ground, she knows that it’s _not_. It’s not enough. 

Catra hates it back there, in the Fright Zone. She hates it so fucking much. It took her too many years to learn that—that she always hated that place, and all that held for her. She hates having to follow orders, and having to give them too, with people listening only out of fear. 

Catra is no different, back there. She too lives in a constant state of fear. Of misery. Even as a Force Captain, she isn’t fed much. She isn’t allowed much sleep—not that Catra sleeps well either way. Horde soldiers are provided the bare minimum for their survival, and not much else. 

And even with Shadow Weaver shut in her prison, the echoes of her abuses still echo across those hallways. Catra can’t walk anywhere in the Fright Zone without remembering them suddenly— _painfully_ —striking her like a physical force. 

And worse...Catra _knows_. She knows what’s coming. She knows what she’ll have to do, have to choose. The people she will hurt before this is all over. 

And as far she can tell, no one is coming to rescue her.

Catra stifles her sobs with a hand. She can’t stay here, despite how much she wants to. A guard will likely find her soon and raise an alarm. That one act could tear apart the last thing that Catra truly has—her future. Her promised future here, in Bright Moon. Where she has friends and freedom and happiness and _Adora_ —

Catra staggers to her feet, wiping a hand across her eyes. She can’t afford to waste any more time.

She pulls out the new tracker pad that Entrapta gave her—one that’s supposedly better at navigating the Whispering Woods. Though Catra supposes that she can’t dispute the claim. It did manage to get her to Bright Moon unscathed, after all. 

So...back to the woods Catra goes, carefully navigating around the guards sleepily patrolling the grounds. She sneaks past the sun-drenched terrace, the bubbling fountains, the flowering gardens, the gleaming statue of Angella, until there, finally, is the Whispering Woods. Straight ahead of her. 

Catra ducks beneath a branch and—

Wait. 

Did she just pass the memorial? 

_Queen Angella’s_ memorial? 

Catra blinks, frozen in confusion. That can’t possibly be right. That statue wasn’t constructed until after the war. Catra was there for the unveiling, in fact. There to support Glimmer and Adora and Bow, despite how uncomfortable it made her—attending a ceremony to honor someone Catra had sort of inadvertently killed. Catra wouldn’t easily forget it. 

Catra spins around, searching the grounds for that out-of-place statue. She searches and searches, eyes combing every inch of the gardens before her…but she doesn’t see it. Not this time. Bright Moon looks exactly as it should—beautiful and plant-filled despite all the reconstruction from the recent battle. 

Strange. She could have sworn she saw it in her periphery. It cuts a rather unmistakable figure, so tall and clean and gleaming. Catra has passed it so many times on this path, during her frequent wanderings through Bright Moon’s gardens. It’s almost difficult to imagine the gardens without it.

Though...perhaps that’s _why_ she saw it. Her brain probably just assumed it was there as she went by. 

Yes. That’s probably it. Catra is getting hung up over nothing.

Though as Catra turns back to the woods, she can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s losing her mind. 

* * *

“You seem...distracted,” observes Light Hope. 

Adora feels equal parts relieved and devastated. It was so satisfying, getting to share a night with Catra in Bright Moon. But it was just as terrible, watching Catra leave after a few golden hours after having her back. Not knowing when, exactly, she would be able return to Adora’s side. To _their_ bed. That place that was supposed to belong to them, no matter what. 

Though technically Adora knows. Catra will be able to return—permanently return—once their friends rescue them, _or_ once they defeat Horde Prime. And no matter what option proves true...Adora will agonize over the wait. 

It was a risky idea, yes. Having Catra visit Bright Moon, sneaking through the castle grounds and climbing through Adora’s bedroom window. But it seemed to succeed despite the risk. She didn’t hear any reports of Horde soldiers strolling through Bright Moon’s gardens, so Adora can only assume Catra’s presence—and subsequent disappearance—went completely undetected.

So maybe…

Maybe they could do it again soon? Maybe they could continue to meet in Bright Moon. It might be the only way to make this time travel torture a bit more bearable. Knowing that, despite how separated they are, they’ll always have one place that remains shared between them. One place where they can hold and kiss freely—

“Adora,” Light Hope calls insistently—right by Adora’s ear—and Adora jumps. 

“Wha-what?”

“Have you been listening, Adora?”

“Oh. Yes,” Adora lies with a broad, false smile. “I’ve been listening so, _so_ closely. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Well,” Swift Wind interjects from the spot at Adora’s side—his sudden presence causing Adora to jump yet again. 

She gasps. When had _he_ arrived? 

“For starters, I shoved my head through Light Hope’s hologram, and you didn’t react. You just stood there, staring at the floor.” Swift Wind nudges her with his flank. “Something on your mind?”

Adora stumbles a bit, scoffing loudly. “Who, me? Of course not. There are absolutely _no_ thoughts in this head, that’s for sure—”

Light Hope and Swift Wind first stare at her, then exchange a glance between each other. Too slowly, Adora realizes the implication of her words—then feels even more foolish than she made herself sound.

“Well, regardless of your apparent preoccupation,” says Light Hope, waving a hand to conjure a hologram of Etheria.”I need your help with a crucial task.”

The hologram zeroes in on a particular region and constructs a small purple tower there, the pointed roof peeking delicately from the planet’s surface. 

“This is the Watchtower,” Light Hope explains. “Once, it allowed me to access my planetary mainframe. But it was destroyed by Mara when she lost control and attacked Etheria. I have been functioning at only a fraction of my power ever since. You and Swift Wind will need to repair it if we are to complete your training.”

Adora feels her eyes latch onto that projection of the Watchtower. And again, she is stunned by the blind trust she placed in Light Hope all those years ago. 

It fills her with fury—to hear Mara so slandered, despite her heroic sacrifice. And more than anything, it fills her with fear—knowing that this task is just the first toppling domino in a long line of decisions that will nearly destroy the universe.

She recalls it so vividly—the day Glimmer balanced Etheria, and activated the Heart of Etheria. She remembers being here, in the Crystal Castle. Dropped to her knees. Held immobile by Light Hope as magic poured from the sword’s hilt, flooding into Adora with breathtaking force and speed. There was so much of it, so much magic—a thousand years of power and energy finally unplugged from the stopper.

Adora had known that magic could hurt. That it could burn and sear and tingle unpleasantly. But that magic was of an entirely different class and quantity. It was fire, pure fire. And She-Ra’s veins were the rivers of oil that turned it explosive.

Every part of her was lit aflame. She shook. She screamed. Inside her head, she begged to be burned away. But she couldn’t be. She-Ra was too strong. She-Ra could hold infinite magic, all the magic that ever was, but Adora couldn’t. Adora could do nothing but scream—

But as she sat there, on her knees, she knew that any relief of her own would mark the end of the universe. She knew that if the magic escaped her, it would destroy everything. 

She realized that she would have to hold it. Or better yet, stop it. 

It took every fiber of her strength—Adora’s strength, not She-Ra’s—to raise the sword, and bring it shattering to the ground. 

The sword...which Adora holds now, despite her best efforts to destroy it. To move beyond it. 

That Watchtower will allow Light Hope to have that control over Adora again, when the time comes. The planetary mainframe directly connects Light Hope to the Heart of Etheria. If Adora doesn’t repair the Watchtower, maybe it will never happen. Maybe Adora won’t have to relive it—

But no. Adora can’t say no. She isn’t allowed to. 

“Fix the watchtower,” Adora mutters, already turning toward the door. “Got it.”

* * *

Cold bites at Catra’s skin. Or, at least, what little of her skin is exposed to the air. Her face and her fingertips, namely. The rest of her sits beneath many layers of clothing, and whatever cold reaches her there—beneath her coats and piles of underclothes—is more of a freezing whisper than a bite, eliciting goosebumps and the occasional fit of shivers.

Catra hates the Northern Reach. Alway has, always will. 

She rifles through the various boxes they brought from the Fright Zone, partly looking for a blanket, partly looking for...something else. 

Mentally, she retraces her steps. She tries to recall where, exactly, she discovered it the first time. She was searching here, in this pile of crates. Then Scorpia arrived to ask her a question and knocked over a box…

Catra glances over her shoulder. That box right there—placed so precariously atop another crate, the lid already missing. She thinks she recognizes it. 

Catra stands, approaching the box as cautiously as one might approach hissing snake. When she peers inside, squinting into the dark contents, Catra sees only one thing...and it’s _not_ a blanket.

Tentatively, Catra reaches down and lifts the First Ones disk from the box, balancing it between her fingernails. It looks just as she remembers it—a three-pronged star of red metal, gleaming sleek and crystalline beneath the overhead lights. 

She remembers what she was told when she first found this disk. Entrapta claimed that it could render She-Ra powerless—a prospect that excited Catra too much. She'd never say no to an advantage against She-Ra’s near-limitless strength. 

But then, after using it in battle, Catra learned the truth. She learned that the disk didn’t eliminate She-Ra’s powers at all. 

No. It eliminated her senses, her inhibitions. Turning her into a red-eyed, bloodthirsty monster that wanted to kill everyone within vicinity—Catra included.

There was a moment when She-Ra stood over her, lumbering closer—laughing sadistically as she raised the sword to strike. It was horrifying to see Adora’s face so overjoyed by the prospect of cutting Catra in half.

She wasn’t Adora at all. She was a vicious thing—a creature wearing Adora’s face, wielding her body for destruction. 

Scorpia rescued Catra, but just barely. With the sword knocked out of her hand, Adora was forced to detransform and immediately fell unconscious. 

Catra should have known better, after that. She should have known better than to try to use this device that possessed everything it touched—including Adora, the girl she still loved no matter how she denied it—with murderous rage. 

But it was such an enticing idea to Catra, at the time. As far as Catra was concerned, She-Ra had stolen Adora from her. Turned her into a princess. Led her away from the Horde, from Catra’s side. 

And Adora had willingly let herself get led away. 

So when she suddenly received the opportunity to control She-Ra—She-Ra, that mysterious entity that stole, consumed, _corrupted_ the person Catra loved most—Catra refused to give up that chance at revenge. Not for anything. 

Under the disk’s power, Adora would have no choice but to stay. And She-Ra would never take anything from Catra again. 

Catra was so twisted back then, so confused and helpless and determined to hold onto any shred of power she could carve for herself. She didn’t understand just how wrong she was. How cruel it was, to use a device that traps a person in their own body, and uses that body against their wishes. 

Absently, Catra’s hand touches the base of her own neck. Now she understands. Now she knows what it’s like to be used. Controlled. 

And she won’t inflict that sensation on Adora. Not now, not ever again. Not even if it saves their future. 

Besides, what would it even accomplish, repeating this short chapter in their lives? Entrapta will find the First Ones tech whether Catra keeps this disk or not. They can just grab what they came for and go when the rebels arrive—

Catra’s ears twitch as she hears someone approach. 

“Hey, Catra—”

She has no time to evaluate the consequences further. 

Catra drops the disk to the ground. It clatters sharply as it falls, landing close beside Catra’s foot. She does her best to make it look accidental as she steps on top of it—the metal clinking delicately as it fractures beneath her foot. 

Scorpia turns a corner, ambling into view just as Catra steps back from the disk. Though she can’t exactly call it a disk anymore. Not now that Catra’s foot has broken it into jagged puzzle pieces. 

“Shoot,” says Catra with feigned regret, nudging the disk’s pieces with her toes. 

Scorpia glances between the broken disk and Catra’s guilty expression. “What was that?”

Catra shrugs. “Dunno. Some doohickey of Entrapta’s, I guess. Serves her right for leaving it on the floor.” She sweeps the disk away, prodding it out of sight with a few swift kicks of her heel. “Now...what’d you want to talk about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@truckeecheeze](https://www.tiktok.com/@truckeecheeze?_d=secCgsIARCbDRgBIAMoARI%2BCjzdXHGK%2BEuA9W4VUn%2BsAR0DA0z3tSeaWxXMBDpqJdliA8qicm%2BxgfiCR0txW8w5WW4gu9zmWUDcXsCa1AsaAA%3D%3D&language=en&preview_pb=0&sec_user_id=MS4wLjABAAAATbtkJmJ3QGtKl3vvQNdw1IMv1NXeS9ka49bru8Gat0L32VhiS8P5GCZa9Y7OYIfv&share_app_name=musically&share_item_id=6894284557399362822&share_link_id=74d74bb6-16db-42f3-bfb7-218fb3b14218&timestamp=1605232458&u_code=d7lkagck52lm22&user_id=6726731919692694533&utm_campaign=client_share&utm_medium=android&utm_source=copy&source=h5_m&lang=en) made a funny [tiktok](https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSVB7Qjg/) of this chapter! Definitely go check it out!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora gets knocked out. Again. 
> 
> Catra helps Adora with her hair. 
> 
> And Catra and Adora crash a skiff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boiii prepare for pain my friends!!!
> 
> So I'm really close to finishing this story (but will need time to edit). But yeah...I might have lied about length. It might be 15 chapters. I don't wanna spare y'all from a second of angst lol. I'll update the chapter count only once I'm sure, though. 
> 
> KEEP COMMENTING PLEASE! I love reading your thoughts and theories and predictions or just whatever other random stuff you wanna say.

Catra knows that her actions should have consequences. That destroying Entrapta’s disk should break something—some part of their future. 

She spends weeks claiming otherwise to herself, assuring herself that the disk can’t be that important. It’s not exactly the most vital facet of their past, and she can’t think of a single reason why the disk would be necessary to their eventual-victory over Horde Prime. 

But deep down, she knows. She _knows_. She understands how the subtlest choices can lead to major changes further down the road. 

Though she doesn’t regret it. She doesn’t regret sparing Adora from yet another terrible mistake of Catra’s. Catra relives enough mistakes here, in this echo of her past. She doesn’t need to make any that directly and consciously hurt Adora too. 

But that doesn’t mean that Catra is unafraid of the potential consequences. 

And that doesn’t mean that Adora was okay with Catra’s decision. 

“Catra!” She-Ra hissed as they fought, her sword swiping in a wild arc that misses Catra a bit too obviously. “You’re the one who keeps saying that we can’t change things—”

“It was an accident! And besides, it’s just a small change!” Catra insisted, hovering her index finger over her thumb to indicate just how small it would be—even if Catra didn’t much believe it herself. 

Adora made a disbelieving grunt. “You don’t know that!”

And still, even with Adora’s doubts, everything played out just as Catra expected. She escaped the rebellion alongside Scorpia and Entrapta—and still managed to grab the tech that Hordak needed. And when it was over, Catra and Adora simply went their separate ways, continuing onwards through the timeline. 

It was too easy. 

Weeks pass as Catra waits for a disaster to strike, or a pillar of their future to crumble. The events in their lives are so intricately connected. Surely, _something_ will happen.

But no matter how long she waits...no matter how she watches for crumbling timelines and changing futures…

Nothing happens. Nothing changes. 

Catra knows she should consider herself lucky, and move on. 

“ _You need to be more careful_ ,” Adora scolds her, speaking the words over the static of the communicator. “ _You don’t need to protect me, Catra. The future—the universe’s future—is more important than that._ ”

* * *

“ _Well...her cell’s empty, right on schedule. Which means that Shadow Weaver’s on her way to you._ ”

Adora shudders as she continues combing through her hair. In their time, Adora doesn’t wear a ponytail nearly so often. t’s started to tug on her scalp, leaving her head sore at the end of each day. 

She thinks that her past self used to feel that soreness too. That pressure, that weight. But she always chose not to acknowledge it. There were always more pressing concerns, and she could never afford to have hair in her face during battle. 

Adora shakes it out now—grateful to be free of the ponytail’s heaviness—and leans back on the pillow. 

“I guess I’ll spend the night pretending to sleep, then. Since, y’know, I won’t be able to.”

And truly, she won’t. The very thought of Shadow Weaver slithering through her window, standing over Adora as she sleeps…

Static crackles on the other end of the communicator. It seems that Catra isn’t very talkative tonight. 

Adora turns over, staring at the tiny metal pin with concern. As if it’s Catra’s face she’s looking at, and not the surface of some emotionless, Horde-issued device. 

“Are you okay?”

“ _Not really, no,”_ says Catra bitterly. “ _In a day or so, Hordak is going to throw me into a cell. And then it will only get worse from there. I’ll go to the Crimson Waste, and send Entrapta to Beast Island, and open the Portal, and_ —”

Over the speaker, Catra’s sigh sounds like a blustering gust of wind. 

“ _We were never supposed to be here this long_ ,” Catra whispers. “ _Entrapta—our Entrapta—should’ve rescued us by now._ ”

Adora presses her lips together. She knows as well as Catra does that with every passing day, the prospect of a rescue becomes more and more unlikely. 

Which means that they’ll have to do the very thing they feared. They’ll have to relive their whole lives. 

“I’m sorry,” Adora says. “I really never thought we’d have to go this far either.”

“ _I hate it here_ ,” whispers Catra. “ _I can’t stand what I’m going to do to everyone. To Entrapta and Scorpia and Glimmer._ _And every single day, I’m here, and you’re there, and I...I really miss you._ ”

“I miss you too,” Adora says, hands curling into the blanket beneath her. “And this call...it’s gonna be the last one for a long time, isn’t it? Once you’re in the cell, and then the Crimson Waste…”

“ _We won’t be able to talk, no. Not until we see each other in the Crimson Waste. And then not again until after the portal is closed_.”

“And are you okay to do that?” Adora asks softly. “Open the portal again, I mean.”

“ _I obviously don’t want to,”_ says Catra. “ _But we’re out of options. With no one coming to rescue us, it’s even more important that we don’t change the timeline. For all we know, our friends could cease to exist—”_

Adora squints at the communicator. “But you changed the timeline back in the Northern Reach—”

“ _It was an accident, okay? I accidentally stepped on the disk. And that part won’t matter, not really. Everything is still on track without it. The portal, on the other hand—”_

“Is pretty important, I know,” Adora sighs. “Without it, Glimmer won’t become Queen.”

“ _And then no Heart of Etheria_ —”

“No destroying the sword–”

“ _No defeating Horde Prime_ —”

“And no future for us, or the rest of the universe,” Adora finishes for her, and buries her face into the pillow. “Got it.”

It’s easy enough to talk about. But Adora knows that it’ll be infinitely harder when they actually get there—when she’s standing amidst a corrupt Etheria, the whole world collapsing and crumbling into the destructive energy of that first portal.

It will be especially hard when Angella swoops in to rescue Adora. Angella...who they came here to save, despite how utterly derailed that little plan became. Will Adora really let Angella sacrifice herself again? 

“ _You should go_ ,” says Catra, after a pause. “ _Shadow Weaver could arrive any moment_.”

Catra is right, of course. And the last thing they need is to give Shadow Weaver any semblance of power over them. If she knew that they were still talking, despite being on opposite sides of the war, Shadow Weaver would be sure to use that to her advantage.

“I love you,” Adora whispers, and it’s still as true as the first time she uttered those words. 

“ _Love you too_.”

The static cuts to silence, and Adora turns off the lamp by her bed. She settles into her enormous bed, arms reaching into the space where Catra normally lies. 

But there’s nothing there now. Nothing but air and cold blankets. 

* * *

Catra has never stopped regretting how she treated Scorpia. 

It still haunts her, how cruel she was. How hurtful and indifferent. How selfish. Especially when Scorpia gave endlessly to Catra. She gave and gave, always showering Catra with loyalty and comfort and humor when Catra offered nothing but hostility and abuses in return. 

Scorpia is one of the only comforts Catra still has here, in the Fright Zone. Her friendship—along with Entrapta’s—are the only pieces of Catra’s future life that remain. 

They remain, yes. But not for long. Catra will soon be forced to lose them too. 

Because Catra will have to hurt them. Catra will have to drive them away. 

Scorpia and Entrapta—who stayed friends with Catra even when she was at her absolute lowest—deserve better. Undoubtedly, they deserve better. But Catra can’t give them that. She can’t give them something better. She can only let history repeat. 

But hadn’t she made promises to herself? Didn’t she swear that she would never again treat anyone like she treated Scorpia? Hadn’t she painstakingly learned to control her rage, so that she stopped lashing out at her friends? 

Well, here Catra is. A liar unable to learn her lesson. 

She can claim all she wants that it’s not her fault. That she’s a victim of circumstance, that the time travel is to blame. 

But it’s almost too easy to fall back into those habits. To direct her frustrations at the few friends she still has. 

And god, Catra is _so_ frustrated. She wants to go home so badly. She wants her old life back, wants to be free of this past. It might be worse, somehow. To live in the Fright Zone despite knowing that there’s something so much greater, something that will fill this emptiness in Catra’s chest. 

Every day, it gets worse. With every glance at the Fright Zone’s smog-filled skyline and every order sent to Catra’s soldiers, she feels that frustration grow bigger. Heavier. Uglier. It’s almost like a tumor within her. Festering and spreading and poisoning everything Catra touches.

She finds herself yelling, insulting. Sowing fear with wild, vicious looks. Scratching claws against the walls in fits of rage. Screaming for people to _go away_ , to _stay away_ , when really it’s Catra who most wants that—to be far away from here. 

It’s not quite the same as that first time. When she yells, she tries to make it less personal. Less threatening. And especially, she tries to give Scorpia and Entrapta fewer chances to be nice to her. Catra really can’t stand the idea of taking advantage of them—of letting them be kind to her while she’s unable to return the favor. 

She tries to assume the role of the cruel, friendless commander. But it’s not easy. Scorpia is too loyal. Too willing to give her whole self to Catra at the slightest request. 

Her compassion is the only good thing Catra still has. But it’s also something she doesn’t want, considering where it will lead. 

Scorpia is so quick to offer to help when Shadow Weaver escapes. 

She is even quicker to accompany Catra to the Crimson Waste when Hordak sends her there, as a punishment. 

And Scorpia is especially happy to fight beside her as Catra conquers the gangs of the Crimson Waste.

Catra doesn’t deserve her. She never has. 

Catra doesn’t deserve anyone. Not Entrapta, not Scorpia, and certainly not Adora. 

And she’ll be twice as undeserving, by the time it’s all over. 

* * *

They capture Adora in Mara’s ship—the ship that will someday become Darla. Huntara escapes with Glimmer and Bow, just like the first time—pushing through the gang members that Catra so easily lured to her side. 

Adora doesn’t get away, though. Catra uses her newly-acquired whip to tug the sword out of her hand.

Not that Adora seemed all too eager to use that sword, not while her eyes seemed so preoccupied with the sight of Catra snapping that whip back and forth. She didn’t even bother trying to yell, “ _For the Honor of Grayskull!”_ before Catra disarmed her. 

Catra’s too busy smirking at Adora to notice Scorpia raising her tail. She can’t stop her in time—not before Scorpia stabs the stinger into Adora’s side.

Adora cries out once and collapses, rendered completely unconscious by Scorpia’s venom. And Catra’s smile evaporates. 

“Don’t—!” she yells, on instinct. 

All eyes fly to Catra in confusion. 

Catra clamps a hand over her mouth, mentally cursing herself for being so obvious. 

“Uh,” Scorpia says, blinking. Adora’s limp body is gripped upright in her pincers. “Was I not supposed to do that?”

Catra glances around nervously. “No… I just…” She clears her throat. “I wanted to be the one to knock her out. Me. Not you.”

“Oh,” Scorpia says, seeming relieved. “Didn’t mean to steal your thunder there, Catra.”

“Yeah, well,” Catra mutters. “Whatever.” 

Guilt swarms Catra from all sides. For attacking Glimmer and Bow, for lying to Scorpia, for letting Adora get knocked unconscious. These are her friends, and she just can’t stop hurting them.

And Adora…she’s supposed to protect Adora. Catra promised her that when they were married. And though she’s fairly sure that Scorpia’s venom won’t cause permanent damage, she was hoping to avoid the risk in general. 

“You!” Catra turns her nearest lackey and barks, “Tie her up! I’ll need to interrogate her when she wakes up.”

The gang member—a tall, long-necked lizard person—nods with frantic agreement, then scrambles to Scorpia’s side with both arms outstretched. Catra swallows her urge to _hiss_ and _scratch_ as Adora is dragged out of sight, red boots trailing behind her as she’s yanked roughly across the floor. 

Catra itches to chase after them. She doesn’t want to leave Adora alone with any of these people. She just wants to pull Adora into her arms—cradle her until she wakes from Scorpia’s poison. 

But she can’t. There are appearances to keep.

The gangs throw Catra a party after that—to celebrate their victory over Huntara. 

Catra lingers for a while. Back when she first traveled to the Crimson Waste, this party was the first of her entire life. She was so unfamiliar, so enthralled by the very concept of parties—the concept of gathering and laughing and drinking in celebration. She had never considered a world where people did things for fun rather than duty or ambition. 

But parties hardly impress Catra as much as they once did. They’re fairly common in Bright Moon—too common, if anything. They often ate up the nights that Catra and Adora preferred to spend in quiet relaxation. 

And truthfully, Catra just doesn’t feel like celebrating. She’s too antsy to find Adora—wherever she’s been tied up in this massive cavern of a ship. 

Catra tries to be discreet as she sneaks away, quietly rising from her chair and weaving between partygoers. But it’s a wasted effort, in the end. Scorpia is watching her too closely, and Catra can do nothing as Scorpia follows her into the hallway. 

Catra resists the urge to groan. She hoped that Scorpia wouldn’t follow—it would be best if they both avoided repeating this painful conversation. 

But it seems that the gods of time travel, whoever they are, refuse to spare Catra from even the smallest misery. 

“Where are you going?” Scorpia asks, concerned—as usual. 

“To interrogate the prisoner,” Catra says evenly, still walking away. The sword bouncing on her shoulder with every stride. 

“Adora will still be asleep for another twenty minutes at least. Why don’t you stay a little longer? Enjoy the party—”

Catra keeps walking, refusing to answer. She shuts her eyes and prays that Scorpia just gets the message—and hopes just as desperately that Scorpia won’t be hurt by her refusal to listen. 

But Scorpia doesn’t let her get away that easily. Not this time. She surges forward, stepping directly in front of Catra with both arms outstretched. 

Catra inhales sharply, grip tightening on the sword. A vision of Glimmer invades her mind, then. She recalls Glimmer holding out her arms in the same way, trying to block Catra from moving forward, into the portal. Yet again chasing after Adora.

“Catra,” Scorpia says pleadingly. “Please. Not everything has to be about Adora all the time.”

For a moment, Catra stares. Wide-eyed. Scorpia didn’t say that the last time. Has Catra really been so obvious?

Catra tries to duck beneath Scorpia’s arm, but is anticipated and blocked. “This isn’t about her,” Catra lies. “I just...I don’t really like parties, is all. They seem like a big waste of time.”

“How do you know?” Scorpia asks. “This is my first. It must be yours too. I’ve never even heard that word— _party_ —before today.”

Catra grits her teeth. “Look, Scorpia—”

“I know you still care about Adora!” Scorpia blurts, like it’s a risky thing to say—like she’s half-expecting Catra to claw her eyes out for suggesting such a thing. “Whenever you fight, you can’t keep your eyes off her. And back there, when we captured her, I can tell that you didn’t want me to hurt her. But... she left you, Catra. And you deserve someone more loyal than that.”

Catra’s lip begins to tremble. She closes her eyes to avoid meeting Scorpia’s earnest gaze. It’s unbelievable how much Scorpia believes her in. How fully convinced she is that Catra deserves loyalty, of all things. 

“I know what you’re going to do,” Scorpia says. “You’re going to try to bring Adora back to the Fright Zone. You’re going to try to impress Hordak by handing over the sword. And more than anything, you’re going to try to impress _her_. Because you think that beating her will somehow prove that you’re worth her time.” 

“Scorpia,” Catra pleads. “Don’t—”

“But that’s not going to make you happy, Catra. The Fright Zone has never made you happy. But these last few days here, in the Crimson Waste...you seemed like you were actually enjoying yourself for the first time in your life. And I thought that maybe…you and me...we could stay here. We could forget Adora and Hordak and the war.”

“Scorpia—”

“We could be happy here. Just the two of us.”

“Scorpia,” Catra says again, finally opening her eyes. She can’t do this. She can’t continue with this cruelty. She can’t let Scorpia get hurt like this, not again. 

Her stare on Scorpia is intense and candid—and all the things that Catra hasn’t allowed herself to be here, in this time that doesn’t belong to her. 

She places a comforting hand on Scorpia’s shoulder.

“You are _so_ good,” Catra says. “So good, and kind, and loyal. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. Maybe one of the best I’ll ever meet. And one day, you’ll get the kind of love and friendship that you’ve always deserved.” 

Catra drops her hand. Her whole face feels stretched with self-loathing, but she tries to keep it neutral for Scorpia’s sake. 

“But I’m not it, Scorpia. I’m not what you’re looking for. You deserve _better_ than me. By the time this is all over…I’ll be lucky to have anyone at all.”

Scorpia stares at her with blank confusion. She doesn’t understand. And most of all, she seems stunned at Catra’s gentleness—at the softness and honesty with which she speaks those words. 

“Now please,” Catra says. “Let me go talk to Adora.”

For a moment, they stand in silence. Scorpia, staring in disbelief. Catra, staring with sadness and certainty.

And then, finally, Scorpia steps aside to let Catra pass. 

“Thank you,” Catra murmurs, then walks forward and past her. Past Scorpia, past this moment, past the guilt that tugs her down, down, _down_ —like an anchor tied her ankles. “And I’m so sorry.” 

* * *

“Adora?”

Adora moans in pain, her chin digging painfully into her chest. There’s a terrible crick in her neck from being held upright with nothing to support her head. 

The whole left side of her body feels numb and tingly. Her arms, too, feel incredibly strained and achy—yanked behind her back, wrists chafing against something coarse and constrictive. 

She squints open one eye. 

She’d open the left eye too...but it doesn’t seem to be listening to her at the moment. 

Slowly, her vision clears. Indistinct pools of color focus into Catra’s yellow and blue eyes, glowing neon in the dull light of the room. She’s sitting beside Adora on the floor, legs crossed and tail flicking in nervousness. 

Adora can barely force her own lips to cooperate. Forming words feels like trying to assemble a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“Umff...C-Catra?”

Catra nods and smiles in relief, cupping a hand to Adora’s cheek. The left cheek, unfortunately. And it’s truly unfair—that Adora can’t even feel the warmth of Catra’s touch. 

“How are you feeling?” Catra asks. 

“...t..tingly,” Adora manages, still struggling to speak with half of her lips unable to move. “Hh...how’re you?”

Catra laughs at her. “Doing better than you, that’s for sure.”

Adora writhes against her bindings as best she can. “S-Scorpia—”

“She stung you before I could stop her,” Catra says. “I was hoping to just capture you, but she got a little carried away. I guess I can pretend to hurt you all I want, but that won’t keep the rest of the Horde from actually attacking.” 

“S’okay,” Adora slurs. “Fuh...free nap time.”

“Right,” Catra agrees, laughing again. Her fingers brush a stray hair out of Adora’s eyes. “Nothing says ‘perfect nap’ like a paralyzing agent.” 

Adora tries to laugh too, but the motion tugs uncomfortably at her restraints. She squirms against them with whatever limbs she can still move—trying to loosen them, but they’re tied _so_ tightly.

“Here,” Catra says, crawling to the spot just behind Adora’s back and kneeling there, leaving Adora enclosed in her shadow.

Through the portions of skin that aren’t numb, Adora can feel Catra’s hands fumbling with whatever is tied around Adora’s wrists. Trying to untie her, evidently. 

Adora glances around and grunts nervously. 

“Don’t worry,” Catra says. “No one’s around. I threatened everyone into taking off—said that if I caught anyone eavesdropping, they’d also be tortured for information.”

“Tortured?” Adora echoes with some amusement. She smirks—not that she can do much else, with half her smile completely immobilized. “Izza wha...this is?”

The pressure around Adora’s wrists loosens suddenly. And without the support of her restraints, she finds herself unable to stay upright. She lurches gracelessly to the side, gasping a bit as she plunges downward–

“Got you!”

Catra catches her gently, cradling Adora’s head in her lap. Adora sighs and settles herself in because truly, as far as Adora is concerned, this is the exact opposite of torture. 

She tries—and fails—to move her left hand. It doesn’t so much as twitch.

Catra’s nails, meanwhile, begin training lightly over Adora’s scalp, climbing to the spot just opposite her forehead—where Adora’s ponytail is held. Carefully, Catra slips her finger beneath Adora’s hair tie and drags it free, allowing the strands to spill freely across her shoulders. 

Catra quickly gets to work on combing through Adora’s hair—gathering it back into her usual ponytail, despite how she just dismantled it. 

“They really did a number on your poof, huh,” Catra remarks. “Lots of little pieces flying out. Lucky you can’t see. You would’ve had a heart attack.” 

Adora hums and again tries to flex her left hand. There seems to be some feeling returning to it now. The barest flicker of sensation. 

“...The...portal,” Adora whispers. 

“I know,” says Catra, all traces of amusement disappearing from her voice. “It’s soon. Really soon.”

“Sword?”

Catra glances to the blade, which lies only a few feet away. Carelessly dropped onto the floor. “As soon as I give that to Hordak, he’ll have everything he needs to open the portal.”

Adora begins to regain some feeling in the left side of her mouth.

“But...you’ll have to pull the swu...switch—”

“Yup,” says Catra through gritted teeth. She continues running her fingers through Adora’s hair, but the pace of her combing grows more frantic, more furious. Not enough to hurt, but enough for Adora to notice her agitation. “I’ll have to pull the switch. And send Entrapta to Beast Island. And kill Angella. And basically try to destroy the whole world—”

Adora lifts her right hand and strokes her fingers against Catra’s lips. 

“We’re not... _supposed_ to change the past,” Adora says. Slowly. Painstakingly. It’s far too difficult to utter a full sentence, but thankfully, the paralysis seems to be wearing off more and more by the second. “We’ll rescue Angella someday. We will.”

Catra falls silent for several moments—her hands ceasing their twisting journey through Adora’s hair.

“Are we bad people?” Catra asks abruptly, in a broken sort of voice.

Adora wastes a moment gaping at her, slow to process the words. “Catra—”

“Stupid question,” Catra interrupts. “Everyone knows I’m a bad person. But I’ve tried so hard to be better. Really, I have. And does this just...undo all of that? Am I back to being just as awful as I once was? And worse…” She gently slings the hair tie around Adora’s hair. “Am I dragging you down with me?”

Adora blinks, not sure what to say. “You...I don’t—”

It takes all of her concentration, but Adora lifts her left hand too—using it to stroke Catra’s cheek. She moves her lips soundlessly for a moment. They seem to be back to normal now, and she’s grateful to recover full control of them.

It’s a good thing, too. Because she has a lot to say. 

“Catra,” Adora says finally—so relieved to find the words forming as they should. “We’re trying our best given what we know. We know that there’s peace, somewhere at the end of this. We can’t say the same for any other choice we make. Doing something different could save a lot of lives—or it could cost millions more.” She sighs. “We just don’t know. That’s the problem. We just. Don’t. Know.”

She pulls Catra down slowly, arching herself up for a kiss. “You’ve done bad things, yes. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. And right now, you’re just trying to do what’s best for everyone. How could that possibly be bad?”

“What if I’m being selfish?” Catra murmurs, barely breathing the words against Adora’s lips. “What if I’m only doing this to make sure I end up with you?”

“If you were _that_ selfish,” Adora says, smiling slightly, “you could’ve convinced me to give up on the past a long time ago. We would’ve eloped to the Crimson Waste by now—content to let the world solve its own problems.”

Above her, Catra’s eyes gleam mischievously. “We still could, you know. We’re already here.” 

Adora laughs softly. “Don’t tempt me.” 

“You’re the one who’s tempting me.”

Adora laughs again, then tugs Catra’s lips down onto hers. 

* * *

“It’s time,” Catra mutters, lifting Adora’s head from her lap. 

Adora sits up. She watches as Catra searches the floor for the rope that once bound Adora’s wrists so tightly. Once she finds it, Catra’s fingers fumble a bit as she reties Adora’s hands, and thankfully, leaves Adora unattached to the post this time.

Catra returns to the spot in front of her. “Ready?” she asks, smiling with what seems to be reassurance. 

Adora nods. 

Catra presses one last kiss to Adora’s lips before binding a gag around her mouth. Adora gives a surprised yelp from behind the fabric. A muffled, indignant cry as if to say, _Is this necessary?_

“Sorry,” Catra says semi-apologetically. “But everyone is going to expect you to be gagged. Otherwise, you’d complain the whole way back.” 

Adora just waggles her eyebrows from above the gag and gives a knowing _mm-hmm._ Catra snorts at her.

“Hey. Keep it appropriate,” Catra warns with a laugh, doing a very good imitation of Adora’s own warning, from back at Princess Prom. “You’re supposed to be a scared prisoner, remember?”

Well...contrary to however she appears, Adora has been—and remains—quite scared. She’s terrified of how this day will end. Terrified that it will all go wrong, and they’ll end up losing even more than they did the first time. 

But it’s easier to seem brave, she supposes, when there’s simply no alternative to run to. No good alternative, anyway. 

Catra contacts the Horde through her Force Captain’s badge. Proudly, she declares that she’s alive and well—and that she’s secured the First Ones tech that Hordak sent her here to find. 

Once the transport is called, Catra releases the badge and turns back to Adora. “Alright, princess. Time to go. On your feet.”

Catra wraps an arm around Adora’s middle and hauls her to a standing position. Adora remembers how aggressive Catra was the first time she dragged Adora back to the Fright Zone. The arm she curled around Adora’s shoulders was painfully tight, and whenever Adora resisted moving alongside her, Catra took great pleasure in ramming her elbow into Adora’s back to spur her forward. 

Now she is far gentler. Guiding Adora forward rather than shoving—though she gives the pretense of forcefulness by maintaining a pace that Adora struggles to keep up with.

Transport comes quickly, conveying them to the Fright Zone in a matter of hours. It’s not long before Adora finds herself tied to a pillar in Hordak’s sanctum, pulling at her restraints despite having no real intention of breaking them. 

“Be back soon, princess,” Catra says, trailing a finger along Adora’s jaw as she starts walking toward the door. 

It sounds gloating enough. But as Catra walks by, her eyes tell a different story. There’s no self-satisfied sneer, no vicious pride. Just twin pools of dread and fear—each of them holding Adora’s stare in a desperate grip. 

But then Catra is gone, and Adora is left alone with Entrapta. 

* * *

Catra feels detached from her own body. Moving mechanically. Forcing herself from point A to point B without much consideration of what she’s actually doing. 

_Walk here_ , _Catra,_ she tells herself. _Now raise your whip_ , _Catra._

It’s the only way she’ll be able to face them—her worst mistakes and betrayals—and do them all again. 

She lets Shadow Weaver nearly kill her. She lets those tendrils of darkness wrap around her, squeezing her breath from her lungs. She lets electricity slice across her body and wrench cries of pain from her throat. 

All the while, she imagines that it’s happening to someone else. A separate entity or version of herself, perhaps. But not Catra. Never Catra. Catra is beyond pain and mistakes like these, she assures herself. 

She tases Entrapta, then sends her to Beast Island despite Scorpia’s protests. As it happens, Catra does her best to hear and see nothing, and no one. She does her best to avoid looking Entrapta in the eyes. Instead, she imagines that she’s electrocuting and banishing someone nameless and faceless. Someone who she’ll never know, and therefore can never hurt. 

It’s easier to pretend, in Entrapta’s case. Her back is turned when Catra strikes. For all Catra knows, she could be tasing a stranger.

Scorpia makes things harder, though. Catra must stare at her directly as she makes her threats, struggling to ignore the hurt in Scorpia’s eyes as they affix themselves to the crackling weapon in Catra’s hand. 

And then, finally, she finds herself back in Hordak’s sanctum. Spewing lies about Entrapta’s betrayal. Demanding that Hordak pull the switch, just like before. 

Glimmer, Bow, and Shadow Weaver arrive right on schedule, using their combined magic to trap Hordak beneath debris. Catra stifles her disappointment. She half-hoped that he’d be the one to do it this time—that he’d pull the switch and be blamed for this, rather than Catra. 

But there’s simply no escaping this. This blood will be on Catra’s hands no matter how she tries to scrub it from herself. 

Catra walks forward, toward the switch. Hand trembling as she reaches out. Her hesitation feels like a physical force—a viscous mass that she must push through if she’s to break the world in half. 

She glances back at Adora, still tied to the column behind her. Adora, who she loves. Who Catra may lose unless she does this—unless she relives this horrifically stupid mistake. 

Catra’s future peace is forged through this—through tragedy and pain and mistakes, most of all. 

Adora gives Catra the slightest of nods. Her eyes are steady and resolute as they hold Catra’s. 

Catra pulls the switch. 

And the world begins to end for the second time.

* * *

Adora wakes back in the Fright Zone. Again. Her eyes find Catra’s directly above her. Catra’s hands are curled around her shoulders, jerking forward and back as she tries to shake Adora awake.

Adora blinks slowly.

“Do you…?”

“Remember everything?” Catra nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“But we’re not supposed to—”

“I know,” says Catra. “But I’m not about to complain.”

She outstretches a hand to Adora to help her out of bed. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” Catra mutters. 

* * *

Catra and Adora stand aboard a skiff, hurtling toward the Whispering Woods. Behind them, the Fright Zone is being wiped from existence—evaporating beneath a curtain of glowing purple light. 

Adora presses down on the accelerator with all of her might and doesn’t let up. Not even a little. Not even when they’re long past where they’re supposed to stop. 

“Adora,” Catra yells over the whirring of the skiff’s engines. “Slow down!”

Adora doesn’t listen. She just keeps the skiff barrelling forward, her eyes on the Whispering Woods ahead. Refusing to glance at the wall of light behind them—the one that continues to consume Etheria in enormous gulps. 

“Adora,” Catra calls again. “This isn’t right, you know that. I’m not supposed to go with you—”

“What does it matter?” Adora demands, shooting Catra a hard glare from the corner of her eyes. “So long as I close the portal, it shouldn’t matter whether you fall in or not—”

“You don’t know that!” Catra yells. “Everyone will remember what happened here, in the portal. If they see us fighting side-by-side after I kidnapped you and activated the portal—”

“Glimmer and Bow will understand—”

“They absolutely will _not_ understand. As far as they know, I’m still the enemy.”

“Catra, please,” Adora nearly sobs. “I can’t. I can’t watch you get hurt like that again—”

Catra swallows, her throat dry and aching—like it’s filled with sand. She can’t stand looking at Adora like this. She’s so desperate to rescue Catra from herself—and from that cataclysmic portal. It inches closer by the second. A purple sunrise on fast-forward. 

“It’s not your choice,” Catra says, gritting her teeth. “It’s mine.”

Catra has not come this far to risk their future like this. She won’t be swayed—not even now, as Adora begs for an opportunity to change the past. Catra won’t steal a few additional moments together at the potential expense of their entire lives. 

No. She won’t do it. She already sent Entrapta to Beast Island. She already broke Scorpia’s heart. She already opened the portal. This will not be the thing that keeps Catra from her goals. 

Her arm shoots out, seeking control of the skiff. 

“Catra, no!” Adora screams. 

But it’s too late. Catra has already thrown her full weight against the steering mechanism. They begin to spin in dangerous, wild circles, and can do nothing as the skiff careens into a tree as wide as a small house. 

Catra tugs Adora out of the skiff just as it crashes. Falling, rolling across the moss-covered ground as the skiff utterly _explodes_ behind them, breaking tree and vehicle alike into steaming piles of bent metal and splintered wood. 

When Catra glances up, she sees the wall of purple light creeping closer. Slithering through the trees in an oozing, glowing mass. 

Catra knows what she must do. 

She’s not supposed to accompany Adora to Bright Moon. 

She’s supposed to fall into the portal. 

She doesn’t know what will happen after that. She doesn’t remember much about those moments in the original portal. It didn’t leave her with much sanity, at the time. She can’t even promise that she won’t attack Adora again. 

But Adora will win. Even against Catra, Adora will win. That’s always been true. 

Catra rises to her feet—

A hand wraps tightly around Catra’s wrist, yanking her back downward. 

“Please, Catra,” Adora says again, nearly gasping the words. “You don’t need to do this.”

“I’m _okay_ to do this, Adora,” she says firmly. “It’s my portal. If anyone deserves to fall in, it’s me.”

“If it’s your fault,” Adora argues, “then it’s mine too! I helped you open it again. We’ve been working together through all of this—”

Catra glances over her shoulder at Adora, still kneeling on the grass. She’s crying—her whole face stained and reddened by tears. And Catra nearly cries too, at the sight of her. At the way she kisses the inside of Catra’s wrist, breathlessly murmuring against the skin. Pleading for her to stay. To come with her.

But Catra can’t. She won’t

“This isn’t about fault,” she says. “This is about preserving our future. And to do that...I need to do this.”

Catra tears her wrist out of Adora’s grasp. She hears Adora calling, crying, _sobbing_ her name as she walks away. Striding fearlessly toward that towering wave of light. 

Standing before the portal, she hesitates for only a moment. Trying to remember what, exactly, it was like when she found herself tumbling into nonexistence. Trying to gauge how afraid she should be of this light that stands before her. 

She sends one glance backward, at Adora. 

Adora is still kneeling on the ground, watching Catra from afar—her features utterly twisted by horror and despair. 

“I love you,” Catra says, because it’s what matters most. Even at the end of the world. 

Adora doesn’t answer—she’s crying too hard to speak—but Catra doesn’t need her to. She knows. She knows that Adora loves her back. And that’s everything, isn’t it? That’s the only thing that makes this misery worthwhile.

She steps forward. 

And the portal swallows Catra whole.

* * *

It’s not how Catra expects. 

She doesn’t remember what it was like, back inside that first portal. She knows that it was painful when she left it—when she returned to the rapidly disappearing remains of Etheria. She knows that it left her body disintegrating and corrupted once she stepped from its jaws. 

But inside the portal? She has no memories of that. Whenever she tries to remember it, it’s just...blankness. As if she hadn’t existed at all while inside of it. Perhaps she had been unconscious the whole time? 

She’s not unconscious now, though. 

Instead, Catra finds herself floating in absolute darkness. Fully conscious. Fully aware. But...nowhere. Nowhere at all. 

It’s as though Catra has been launched into the starless sky that once surrounded Etheria. There’s nothing, no one around. No floor, no ceiling. No sight, taste, sounds, or smell. 

But that can’t be right. Catra left this place, somehow. She clawed her way back to the real world. But with nothing around, nowhere to go...how is she supposed to do that how? 

Catra’s head swivels back and forth, but there’s nothing to see. No exit to seek. 

But there has to be. There has to be _something_ she can go to, drag herself beyond. She can’t stay here—she has to get back to Adora. Adora is waiting for her, back in the real world. 

Catra begins to wonder if she’s hallucinating it. This blank space, this empty dimension. Maybe she’s so overwhelmed by pain that she isn’t thinking straight. Maybe her brain can’t even process her surroundings, she is so disoriented and frightened. 

Maybe this is a terrible dream. In fact, Catra had many dreams like this when she was a child. Dreams about being alone in darkness—about being abandoned in some soundless, sightless place. 

But she’s not alone. Someone is waiting for her beyond this place. A whole life waiting for her, if only she can crawl her way back to it. 

And besides...Catra is supposed to see well in the dark. 

Catra shuts her eyes, enveloping herself in even more darkness, but this time it’s a darkness within her control. She clings to this comfort—if she has control of anything at all, it’s her own mind and body. 

She gathers her breath. Focuses her senses. She listens, in particular, for the sound of her heartbeat. It’s a calming technique that Perfuma taught her right after the war. One that works especially well in Catra’s case, considering how good her hearing is. 

She strains her ears, listening for it. And there it is. That steady _ba-bum_ from within her own chest. 

And then she tries to listen beyond it. Trying to determine if there’s something—anything—in this mass of darkness that surrounds her. 

For so long, she detects nothing at all. No sound, save her own breathing and heartbeat. But then she hears...something. A deep noise, one that causes her ears to twitch in discomfort. Like the fluttering of wings, only louder. 

Hasn’t...hasn’t Catra heard that sound before? 

Something isn’t right about this place. There must be something here, beyond the darkness, if she hears that sound—

Catra lets her eyes fly open—

And gasps. _Screams_. 

Because there, right in front of her eyes, is some sort of...creature. A grinning, blood-red face with white, pupilless eyes—pressed nearly nose-to-nose with Catra.

On instinct, Catra shuts her eyes again. Hoping, in frantic fear, that it’s yet another hallucination. A product of her own imagination, rather than something real and there and poised to attack—

She waits there for so long. Hours. Minutes. Days. There’s no way to tell how much time passes before it becomes clear that nothing is going to attack her. If that _thing_ wanted to do so, it had plenty of opportunities while Catra stood frozen with her eyes shut. 

Tentatively, she squints one eye open. Just to check. Just to make sure. 

She sees no one. Not this time. The red-faced creature is entirely gone, leaving Catra wondering if she had imagined it in the first place. 

But she does see something. A tear in the darkness, just a few inches away—like a claw had been swiped through air, and cut clean through to a dimension beyond this one. 

Light spills from the gap. Bright light. Daylight. 

Etheria. 

Catra has found her way out. 

She basically swims toward it, the physics are so nonexistent in this plane of darkness. Her eagerness to leave completely overwhelms her fear of what comes next—pain, in the form of a portal-corrupted body. 

But that’s better than being here, in this place of darkness and emptiness and…

Monsters? Or did Catra imagine that too?

Catra doesn’t have time to dwell on it. There’s only this—only this path back to Etheria, to Adora, to the life that awaits them long beyond all this fear and agony. 

* * *

Adora kneels on the ground, sobbing. The world is disintegrating, imploding all around her—vaporizing in a mist of purple light. Gravity is moving backward. Glimmer and Bow just evaporated into thin air. Angella is likely on her way to sacrifice herself. And Catra…

“Adora.”

She looks up. The tears stream faster as her eyes settle on Catra’s body, so twisted and shattered by the portal. It was always a terrifying sight. Catra, half-inverted in color, one eye its typical yellow, the other a dark grey, almost black, with a bright white pupil. 

Catra catches her staring and glances downward at herself. “Not pretty, is it?”

Adora’s breath catches. “Do you... are you going to…?”

“I’m not going to fight you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Adora exhales another small sob. She reaches up, as if to touch Catra’s arm. The burnt-looking one. The one that continues disintegrating before Adora’s very eyes. But she hesitates before she makes contact. She’s afraid that if she touches it, the arm might fall apart entirely.

“Oh, Catra…” she whispers, voice trembling. “Does it...does it hurt?”

Catra swallows. “A little. But—” She kneels in front of Adora on the ground. “You have to finish this, Adora. We’re almost there.”

Wordlessly, Adora nods as tears continue to stream down her cheeks. Catra cups Adora’s cheek with her undamaged hand. Swiping at the tears with a thumb. 

“I knew it was going to be hard…” Adora sobs, her shoulders shaking with every cry from her throat. “But I never thought it’d be _this_ hard. Watching the whole world break apart, losing you, losing Glimmer and Bow, and Angella—”

Adora feels like she can’t breathe. She can’t do this, she can’t _breathe_ —

“Hey,” Catra murmurs. “You know how this ends. It’s going to be okay.”

Adora jerks her head at the portal all around them. “You’re going to have to go back in there, aren’t you?”

Catra doesn’t answer, for a moment. And then, slowly, she nods. Her lips pressed tightly together. 

Adora sniffs, weeping uncontrollably now. “And will that hurt you too?”

“No,” Catra assures her. “Being inside the portal...it doesn’t hurt. At least not as far as I can feel. It’s just that…”

Catra trails off. For the first time since her return, Catra’s eyes leave Adora’s face. They journey to the portal instead, squinting into that purple light as though trying to see beyond it. Searching for something lost in the light’s glare. 

Adora continues staring at her in horror and wretched, broken longing. Wanting to hold her, and keep her here—keep Catra safe—but knowing with certainty that it’s an impossibility. 

“What?” Adora demands. “What is it? What happened there?”

“I think I saw something in there,” Catra says quietly. 

“What? What do you mean by ‘something?’” 

“I don’t know, exactly. A face. A person. Maybe something worse—”

A harsh rumble echoes through the ground beneath their feet. Fissures spread through every inch of rock and grass, and then, with one last crackling boom, the ground splits into tiny pieces. Leaving nothing to stand on, or hold on to. 

“Catra—!” Adora screams as they both fall backward into open air, her hand outstretched. 

But Catra doesn’t take it. She merely shakes her head and closes her eyes. 

They plummet down into nothing. There’s no approaching ground, no wind lapping at Adora’s face. Just an endless descent. Just Catra, spiraling away from her, breaking into pieces before her very eyes—the portal’s corruption spreading and _destroying_ until there’s nothing left of her, nothing left of Catra. 

A horrible cry is wrenched from Adora’s throat. A hopeless, tear-filled noise that echoes in the near-empty, near-shattered world around her. It leaves her breathless and gasping, her lungs aching with the exertion of the scream—

“Adora! Hold on!”

Adora is still blinded by tears when Angella swoops in, capturing Adora in her arms. 

* * *

“Do you want to know a secret?” Angella asks, mouth twisted into a small, impossibly sad smile. 

Adora knows. She knows this secret already. She has heard it before. 

“I am...a coward.”

But she’s not, Adora wants to scream. It’s Adora who’s the coward now. Adora is the coward who will stand by and let Angella sacrifice herself like this. It should’ve been Adora all along, it should’ve been Adora trapped in that portal for all eternity. 

“I know what you’re going to do,” Adora says, wiping tears from her own eyes. 

Angella looks at her with a mixture of surprise and wistfulness. 

“You’re going to fly up there and close the portal, aren’t you?”

Angella hesitates for a moment, like she expects Adora to try to stop her if she admits the truth. But then, slowly, she nods. Acknowledging the inevitability of this moment. 

Adora clenches her fists at her side. 

“I won’t be able to stop you, will I?”

Angella shakes her head. 

“This is my choice,” Angella says firmly. “And I choose to be brave.”

Adora gulps down a shaking, tear-drowned breath. Images of Glimmer and Micah flash across her mind, reminding her of the misery and loss that will result from this one terrible moment. But she shoves it down. She focuses, instead, on what she has not yet lived, not yet seen. 

And yet she is sure it will happen all the same. 

“We’re going to save you,” Adora swears. “I don’t know how, or when. But we won’t leave you in there. I promise.”

Angella smiles softly at her. It’s an uncertain smile, though. She doesn’t expect to be saved. She expects this to be permanent, and tragic, and irreversible. 

She leans down and kisses Adora’s forehead. 

And then she’s gone, wings flapping, each beat carrying her higher and higher. Toward the sword, toward the portal. Away from her life on Etheria and her family. Away from Adora, who can only stand there, helpless, as someone else saves the world. 

The portal implodes, collapsing in on itself. And when it’s gone, Angella is nowhere to be found. 

And Adora is left with nothing but the sword. 

The world around her is agonizingly silent. Her voice sounds gratingly loud to her own ears.

“For the Honor of Grayskull!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the stuff about catra's childhood nightmares is from my other fic, [the vanishing point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692152/chapters/59675914). 
> 
> (basically I'm just that meme of bernie sanders going "I am once again asking you to read the vanishing point" because it's my favorite fic I've ever written and I've been writing fics for 6+ years now)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Trouble makes an interesting observation. 
> 
> Catra gets angry about art. 
> 
> And Adora screams a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll be finished writing the final chapter of this fic in a few hours...which means that I can start writing new catradora fics while I edit what remains of this one. 
> 
> I've got lots of ideas, but shoot me a message on my [tumblr](https://catra-adoras.tumblr.com/) if there's something specific you'd like to see. I can't make promises on what I'll write, but I'm always open to ideas. Or just message me if you wanna talk about catradora in general
> 
> AND PLEASE KEEP THE COMMENTS COMING. They keep me going. My brain is a catradora-writing machine that runs on comments. 
> 
> Last but not least—next chapter is a major turning point. Make sure to tune in! I'll be adding a bunch of tags next week too 👀
> 
> (Also I can't believe that this fic hit 10k hits already—thanks for reading, everyone!)

Adora can’t look Glimmer in the eyes. 

It was hard enough the first time they lost Angella. Too easily, she blamed herself for being unable to stop what happened—the opening of the portal, and Angella’s subsequent sacrifice.

But now that Adora willingly let it happen...now that Adora is directly responsible for her best friend’s pain…

She doesn’t think she’ll ever make this right. There’s no fixing the heartbreak in Glimmer’s eyes. No erasing her tears, no repairing the tear Adora made in Glimmer’s family. 

Glimmer will likely never know. That’s what’s so uniquely awful about this. Glimmer can’t know—she can’t know that Adora was responsible. The future may very well depend on Adora’s secrecy and discretion. Which leaves her unable to admit the truth, unable to apologize. Unable to find some sort of release from all this remorse and self-hatred. 

And so the guilt will quietly, discreetly consume Adora. Just like the rest of Adora’s knowledge of the future does.

“Don’t worry,” Adora tells Glimmer on the day of her coronation. A day that Adora has lived before, but never like this. Never with this much pain trapped between Adora’s ribs. “You’ve got me and Bow beside you all the way.”

It feels like a lie. Or it does in Adora’s case, anyway. It’s just...it’s _so hard_ to feel like Glimmer’s ally when Adora worked so hard to ensure that this—all this tragedy and loss—happened exactly as it was supposed to. 

* * *

“Hey, so…” Scorpia begins, letting her words wander in their forced casualness. “I know you made a heat of the moment decision—which I totally get.”

Catra turns away. She can’t let anyone see her face—not now. Not like this, with tears welling in her eyes and mouth quivering with every breath. She’ll end up giving herself away.

She’s supposed to be better at hiding her emotions than this. For god’s sake, Catra spent years doing that—pretending not to care. Why has she suddenly become so bad at it now? 

Maybe it’s because she believed herself, back then. But now lying about her feelings feels ten thousand times more painful than confronting them. It’d be a luxury, even. To confront her own feelings. It’s something that she can’t afford to do here, in the past. 

“But you didn’t really want Entrapta to stay on Beast Island forever, right? Anyway, I was thinking...we could go back and get her—”

“Entrapta betrayed us,” Catra says, just as she’s supposed to. Though it’s not a perfect delivery. Her voice cracks a little at the end, the guilt crawling from some deep cavern in her chest and scraping nails across her throat. 

Betrayal. It’s almost funny, claiming that Entrapta is the betrayer. Catra was always the one who most deserved that word. Who else could claim to have mistreated so many of her closest friends? 

It’s somewhat better, she supposes, to know that Entrapta will be okay. That she will enjoy her time on the island to some degree—in the ways that only Entrapta ever could. 

But it still doesn’t change the cruel intentions behind Catra’s decision to send her there. And it doesn’t change the way Scorpia looks at her—like she can’t trust Catra anymore. Like Catra has truly crossed the line. 

And now Catra will have to cross the line even more. 

“But Entrapta didn’t betray us—”

Catra doesn’t even let her finish. She lunges forward, sinking her claw into the wall just behind Scorpia’s head. Letting the nails drag and scrape lines into the plating, shards of metal curling beneath each nail. A terrible screech echoing with every millimeter of movement. 

There’s no choice in this, either. If Catra doesn’t drive Scorpia away too, then Scorpia will never defect. She’ll never join the Princess Alliance. The planet will never be balanced, the Heart of Etheria never activated, the universe never freed from Horde Prime’s rule—

“Entrapta is where she needs to be,” Catra grits out. “And unless you want to join her, you’ll stop asking about her.”

Scorpia’s face crumbles into heartbreaking disappointment. But worse than that, she looks so unsurprised. Like she’s come to expect this kind of unwarranted hostility and violence from Catra. 

Catra hates it. She hates that this is how she’s known, how she’s seen. 

She hates that this is how Scorpia sees her, most of all. Scorpia...who’s always believed her—forgiven her—more than Catra has ever deserved. 

Catra lowers her eyes from Scorpia’s face and yanks her claws from the metal, rotating until she’s free to look at the door instead of Scorpia’s tired, saddened eyes. Catra couldn’t be more eager to leave that room—to be free of the pressure of Scorpia’s gaze, and the far more crushing weight of pretending to be someone who she’s not. 

Not anymore, anyway.

Or at least...she hopes. 

* * *

It starts with a communicator call. The sound of Catra's voice, crackling through the speaker. 

“ _I need to see you,”_ she says simply. Urgently. 

Adora is quick to respond. She, too, has spent the whole night clutching at her communicator, considering whether she should ask for the thing she has wanted most in recent days. Even despite how risky it would be to hold it within her arms.

“I was about to call about the same thing.”

Within a few hours, Catra has woven her way through the Whispering Woods and arrived in Bright Moon. 

Only once she sees Adora—alone, sitting on the bed in wait for her—does Catra slide past the window and sneak into the room. It takes less than a second for them to tumble into a kiss, into an embrace. Into the place between the sheets and beneath each other’s hands. 

Time has been passing so slowly. So painfully. And Adora has been in agony, waiting for another moment like this. 

And Adora’s not just talking about the physical. It’s been totally suffocating, being unable to acknowledge the truth. The truth of Adora’s actions, of their circumstances. Because only Catra knows how things truly are. Only Catra understands how time drags and dawdles around them, amplifying every torment until it’s twice as potent as it once was. 

Only Catra knows what it’s like to lie, to pretend like this. Only Catra knows what it’s like to be separated for years from the person you most want to see each day. 

For a time, they do not speak. Not really. There’s only quiet noises. Gasping breaths and soft cries—each of them stifled beneath hands to avoid detection by ears beyond this room. Swallowed moans. Catra’s purring. The mumble of shifting fabric, the muted hiss of skin sliding against skin, slippery touches and fluttering eyelids. 

It’s only when they settle back into the pillows—skin coated in sweat, breath shallow in its recollection—that they begin to exchange their whispers.

“I know we’re getting closer now,” Catra mutters, face pressed into Adora’s shoulder. “Closer to being together, anyway. But to me, it feels like everything’s moving slower. Like every day takes twice as long as the one before. ”

“I know,” says Adora miserably, fingers rubbing gentle lines behind Catra’s ears. “It’s been the same for me. The days feel like weeks. I just wish I could put it all on fast-forward.”

Catra grumbles something unintelligible into Adora’s skin. Something frustrated and impatient. And then, pulling her head away, she asks: “What’s even left anyway?”

Adora counts events in her head. “Double Trouble’s infiltration of the rebellion. The Sacking of Salineas. Scorpia’s defection. Glimmer’s attempt to activate the Heart of Etheria…”

Adora trails off. But Catra doesn’t let it stand.

“Horde Prime,” Catra murmurs.

Adora tightens a protective arm around Catra’s back. “Entrapta could still come,” she offers weakly. She's never completely given up hope on that possibility—the possibility they’ll be rescued before they reach their next barrage of mistakes and tortures. 

But truthfully...Adora barely believes it now, even as she suggests it. 

Catra sighs. She looks up at Adora—her features arranged into an expression of candid seriousness, eyes overflowing with exhaustion. “Adora,” she says. “I think by now...we just need to accept that there’s no escaping this. If our friends were going to rescue us, they would have done it already. It’s been over a year.”

Adora releases a sigh of her own. “I know,” she says. “But...I’m still hoping. I’m hoping that there’s a way that we can escape this without fighting _him_ again.” Adora rubs a hand along Catra’s side. “Without letting him hurt you—”

Catra stiffens. She places a hand over Adora’s—holding it, stilling it, stopping it. Her fingers tremble slightly, her claws pricking a bit into the back of Adora’s palms. 

“I’ll survive,” Catra half-hisses, eyes fixated on the blanket rather than Adora’s face. Catra says it so quickly and stubbornly, like she’s swearing the words to herself. Promising to make it through, despite how much the mere memory of Prime fills her with fear. 

And Horde Prime _does_ fill Catra with fear. Adora knows that. Whenever Catra has nightmares—which is often enough—they feature Horde Prime prominently. Him, or Shadow Weaver, or the Portal. But Catra always cries the loudest when it’s Horde Prime torturing her, in her dreams. 

The thought fills Adora with a colossal sadness. “Catra,” she whispers. “Surviving isn’t good enough. We both know that.”

Catra’s eyes rejoin hers, all furious determination.

“It’ll be enough,” Catra says, “to get us both back where we belong. Here, together. And not just meeting secretly whenever our schedules are clear. I mean being _really_ together.” She kisses Adora’s shoulder. “Being able to hold you and touch you without having to hide it.”

As Adora watches, Catra’s brow furrows—her features lost in thought. “Though I don’t know how we’re going to keep him from seeing my memories. Once he taps into my head, he’ll know everything—”

“Well...I don’t know about that,” says Adora. “Light Hope should’ve been able to read my memories too, but she couldn’t.”

Catra raises an eyebrow at her. “Really?”

Adora nods. “She could only see memories of the past. Or the _first_ past, anyway.” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s another rule of time travel? Like not being in two places at once. Maybe only people _from_ the future can interpret memories of things that haven’t happened yet.” 

Catra hums. “Huh. Maybe.”

Adora grabs Catra’s chin and tugs it in for a full kiss. A kiss filled endless, barely suppressed want, as well as a sigh of exasperation toward the senselessness of their situation. 

“Will time travel ever stop being completely infuriating?” Adora complains. 

Catra laughs at her. And it’s so good, hearing Catra laugh. Neither of them has found much reason to laugh in recent days. 

* * *

A dainty, light pink hand outstretches for Adora to shake. 

“I’m Flutterina, by the way.”

Maybe Adora is imagining things, or maybe Adora has truly learned to know better over the years...but Adora thinks she can see Double Trouble behind those wide, childish eyes. 

Catra warned Adora that this would be happening soon. That the attack on Elberon would be a trap, just like the last time. One intended to insert Double Trouble into the rebellion’s ranks. 

“You need to promise me that you’ll act like nothing’s wrong,” Catra told her warningly. “Double Trouble is really, really good at knowing when people are lying. Better yet—just try to avoid them as much as possible.” 

Well, there’s no avoiding them now. Not with Flutterina standing directly in front of Adora, awaiting a handshake. 

Adora plasters a sheepish smile to her face and takes Flutterina’s hand. She keeps her movements slow and casual as she pumps her arm up and down. 

Flutterina whimpers in excitement and leans backward in shock. “...I’m shaking hands with She-Ra!”

_Right_ , Adora thinks, fiercely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. _Nice acting there, Double Trouble_.

It’s going to be difficult to keep up this pretense, in particular. Pretending not to know that someone else is pretending. With time travel, everything is just too damn complicated. 

* * *

In the months that follow, Catra and Adora’s secret meetings in Bright Moon are all that they have. They don’t even see each other on the battlefield, not after that last confrontation in Elberon. They’re separate, completely separate—a cut rope, the pieces scattered across opposite ends of Etheria. Tugging at nothing. Floating, detached, in this mechanical repetition of their past. 

That’s how it feels, anyway, until they see each other again in Adora’s bedroom. Pressing their frustration into each other’s lips, clinging to each other’s shoulders and arms and legs. Drawing sighs from each other’s throats in the hopes to memorize the sound, once it’s gone. 

As the war drags more violent, more painful, it’s the only semblance of happiness they can claim. Adora’s friendship with Glimmer is falling apart. The rebellion is losing territory in enormous waves. 

And Catra...Catra feels sick playing conqueror. Wearing her soldiers down to thin, trembling bodies. Screaming at Scorpia, setting fire to rebel towns. She does her best to make it all softer—kinder—but softness doesn’t do much to cushion those in the path of pure destruction. 

Because that’s what Catra was, at this point in her life. That’s what she is now. A pair of hands with which to execute acts of pure destruction. 

There’s no sleep at all when she’s not in Adora’s bed. That bed is the only place she can pretend that she’s _someone better_ —that she’s still the person that she’ll someday be. But maybe that’s a lie now too. Maybe there’s no recovering from this—these acts of evil twice-committed. Maybe there’s no getting better from it. 

But Adora still loves her, despite it all. Adora smiles at Catra like she’s the sweetest thing she’s ever seen—a face freed from the confines of a wonderful memory. And maybe that’s all they are now. Memories of the future. Of a better life that hasn’t happened yet. Catra can always taste it on Adora’s lips. That better life. That happiness that sits just beyond their reach. 

The visits to Bright Moon increase in frequency. Before, they happened only once every month. But then it grows to twice a month. Then every week. 

Catra should’ve known that it couldn’t last. 

Catra keeps her expression neutral as she watches Double Trouble’s report on her tracker pad. They imitate Bow first, relating how Bow sustained a leg injury that was healed by She-Ra. 

Internally, Catra breathes a sigh of relief. Years ago, Bow was nearly killed by the bot that gave him that injury. But this time, Catra managed to delay the bot’s detonation by a few seconds, giving him sufficient time to get out of lethal range. 

It wasn’t much. Bow still got hurt. But Catra can’t afford to pull her punches too much—not without drawing suspicion.

As Catra watches, Double Trouble transforms into Glimmer, then She-Ra. She laughs at the appropriate moments, willing herself to seem amused and not totally disgusted by it all—by these attempts to deceive and injure her friends.

“I’m sending coordinates for She-Ra’s position,” Double Trouble says as they begin tapping at the screen of their own tracker pad. “She’s going back out to destroy the bot that hurt her friend.” 

“Typical heroic Adora plan,” Catra manages with a small scoff. 

Through the screen, Double Trouble smirks, but doesn’t say anything more. 

“What?” Catra demands, growing suspicious of the mischievous glint in their eyes. “Do you have something else to report?” 

Double Trouble only chuckles. “Not exactly, no. Just...a question.”

“What question?” 

The smirk grows into a smile. “So...how long have you been sleeping with She-Ra?”

Catra’s nails scrape into the back of the tracker pad. She knows that she’s giving herself away—that her wide-eyed stare and stalled breathing reveal the truth, no matter how much she might try to deny it. But she can’t help it. She doesn’t understand. They’ve been so quiet, so careful—

_Shit_. 

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed in yourself, kitten,” says Double Trouble. “I mean, it’s nothing to be ashamed about. Who hasn’t thought about it at some point? She’s She-Ra, for crying out loud. Half your army would want to screw her if they weren’t trying so hard to fight her. Though you’ve apparently discovered a way to do both—”

A strangled growl tears its way from Catra’s throat. “We’re not—”

“C’mon, Catra. Did you really think you could out-spy the spy? Did you really think you could sneak into the castle without me noticing? Especially after you left so many little love bites all over your lady-love—”

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

What have Catra and Adora _done_? 

Catra presses her lips tightly together. Furious, and fearful, and not sure what to say. They weren’t supposed to know. _No one_ is supposed to know. And if they do, it could put their entire future in danger. 

“Look at you, luckiest cat on Etheria. Trust me—if you knew how much time these rebel idiots wasted pining after her, you’d be more impressed with yourself. It’s all people gossip about, really. She-Ra’s thighs and muscles and strength. Care to share any details about your enviable sexual conquest—?”

Catra’s nails dig even further into the tracker pad, the glass fissuring beneath the force of her grip. “ _Enough—_ ”

Double Trouble laughs. “Alright, alright. I won’t pry any further. Though I do wonder—have you told her about me?” 

“Of course not,” Catra says quickly, trying her best to fabricate a convincing lie. “I’m just trying to manipulate her. Pretending to care so that when we come for Bright Moon, she’ll feel too conflicted to fight—”

“Uh-huh,” says Double Trouble, in a voice that plainly declares that they just don’t believe her. “But I’ve noticed Adora looking at Flutterina funny sometimes. Like she doesn’t trust me.” They raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you sure she hasn’t figured it out?”

“I’m sure,” Catra lies. “We don’t talk much, when we meet.”

“Well,” Double Trouble says with a sigh. “If you’re sure.”

“I said I’m sure. Now let’s drop this—”

“But you see, kitten, it can be awfully difficult to keep this many huge secrets. First, I have to pretend to be Flutterina. Now, I have to hide the fact that you’re quite literally sleeping with the enemy. And not just _any_ enemy. But She-Ra—the princess of all princesses. With so many secrets in these hands of mine…” Double Trouble’s eyes flash. “I might just let one slip.”

Catra should’ve known. 

Catra grits her teeth and narrows her eyes. “Then what do I have to do to keep your hands from slipping?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Double Trouble says dramatically. “A little extra payment does wonders for a case of butterfingers.”

* * *

“ _We need to stop meeting in Bright Moon_.”

Adora snorts and glances down at the communicator, her attention half-focused on changing her bedsheets. “What, are you breaking up with me?”

“ _Adora, I’m serious_ ,” Catra says. “ _Double Trouble knows about us._ ”

Adora freezes, eyes snapping back to the communicator in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘ _Double Trouble knows_?’ How? How much do they know?”

“ _Not everything. At least, I don’t think they know everything. But they know we’ve been seeing each other. I’m paying them off to keep it quiet, but who knows how long that will last—_ ”

A blush boils across Adora’s cheeks. “But...how? We’ve been discreet—”

Catra’s voice is a stream of frantic agitation. “ _Yeah, well. Apparently, we weren’t discreet enough. They said something about 'love-bites,' I guess—I don't know for sure. But I thought you said you’d heal any marks I gave you—”_

_“_ Well, _someone_ decided to oversleep on the last morning you were here,” Adora says. “You made me late to the war meeting and I didn’t even have time to heal them. I checked in the mirror, though. My jacket should’ve hidden them—”

“ _Adora!”_ Catra says in mortified disbelief, the speaker shrieking with feedback. “ _What about your ear?_ ”

With a small gasp, Adora raises her fingers to the spot behind her right ear, recalling how Catra had sucked and nipped at the skin there a few nights ago. She curses. Of all the stupid things for Adora to forget—

If Adora’s ponytail swayed in the right direction, anyone could have seen them. It's a miracle that only Double Trouble noticed. Or maybe other people did too, and simply decided not to comment on them—

“Oh no,” Adora murmurs, sinking down onto the unmade bed. “Oh, Catra. I’m sorry. This is all my fault—”

Catra sighs shakily on the other end. “ _No, it’s...this is my fault too. I’ve been letting us get sloppy, take too many risks. We need to be more careful. I don’t think it’s safe for us to continue meeting in secret.”_

Adora doesn’t know what to say. Those meetings...they’re all that Adora looks forward to each week. The only mercy in this hurtful, war-torn past of theirs. A chance to see Catra in a room that should belong to them. A chance to live a moment—a real, unique moment—instead of a sad, shattered frame of their past. 

Does Catra really expect Adora to just give that up?

“No. Catra, please. We can be better,” Adora nearly begs, pulling her knees to her chest. “More careful. This was just one fluke—”

“ _The only fluke that we’re aware of, you mean_ ,” Catra says. “ _Other people might be getting suspicious. We need to stop. We need to focus on the big picture—_ ”

Adora curls a fist and brings it down on the mattress.

“I’m so _tired_ of focusing on the big picture!” Adora cries, hissing the words into the microphone. And it’s so awful, that she has to whisper these words instead of _scream_ them like she wants. “That’s all I do! Fight, hurt, nearly die for the big picture, over and over again. And this...meeting here...it’s the only good thing we have. Are really going to just let it go—?”

“ _Do you think I want to do this?_ ” Catra demands. _“I’m all alone here, Adora! You’re all I have! But we don’t think clearly when we’re around each other. We should try to get through these next couple months as best we can.”_

“Months, Catra! Months—”

“ _We can still call_ —”

“It’s not enough—”

“ _Of course it’s not! Nothing about this is going to ever be enough, not until we make it back to our future. We just need to suck it up in the meantime and get through it—”_

Adora scoffs, fuming at the very suggestion. “Well, I’m glad it’s going to be so easy for you—”

Catra makes an outraged noise. “ _Like you can talk! You’re the one living it up in a palace while I’m stuck here, in the Fright Zone. Choking down ration bars and coughing on smog—_ ” 

Tears squeeze from Adora’s eyes as she buries her face into the bed—nose crushed into the clean sheets, senses overwhelmed by the sharp scent of soap.

She...she didn’t mean it like that. She’s just. She’s so tired. She doesn’t want to do this anymore. Adora knows how much Catra is hurting. She knows that this is worse for Catra, so trapped and alone in the Fright Zone. 

But there’s so little space for Adora to acknowledge someone else’s pain. No space in her chest, in her stomach, along her spine. Not room in her lungs or her mouth to say what she should. Not when her own frustration continues to balloon and burden and suffocate. And Adora can’t...she just can’t…

She hears the communicator switch off, the static shattered by silence. Catra has hung up on her. 

Silence is no comfort. But in a moment like this, words feel just as empty.

* * *

The sun burns dark orange, almost maroon, as it descends behind the horizon. A small, senseless part of Catra’s brain recognizes that it’s a beautiful sight. The sun dipping into the sea. The warm colors spilling over the waves. 

Salineas burns too. It burns orange, blood red. Black, with smoke pillars that seem to touch the sky. 

But unlike the sunset, it’s not at all beautiful. 

Catra’s claws dig into her palms as Hordak’s weapon slices explosive red lines through the Sea Gate and the buildings beyond. The beam of the weapon sears itself into her eyes, but she just can’t stop watching. 

She spent years rebuilding Salineas, after the war. Painstakingly reconstructing houses and buildings and sewage systems and god knows what else. Painting walls and planting greenery. 

And now...now she gets to watch it all burn again. 

Catra remembers the hardest thing to reconstruct—the arch that once held the Sea Gate. She spent probably two years carving all those sculptures into the stone, painstakingly replicating every ornate inch of the original architecture. 

That arch sits crumbled now. Halfway plunged into the sea, halfway shattered into smoldering stone pieces. 

The Horde captured most of the population the first time. Most, but not all. People certainly died in the destruction—or in the small skirmishes with the population that ensued. 

And maybe Catra wasn't the one who wielded the weapon that blasted through so many homes. But the plan only worked as a result of Catra’s spying through Double Trouble. And she definitely didn’t stop Hordak’s weapon once it started firing. 

She doesn’t stop it now, either. She can’t. But she wants to—truly, she does. But she knows that even if she tried, Hordak would blast right through her too. He’s enjoying the destruction—the conquering—far too much to let anyone stand in his way. 

Boats already make Catra nauseous. But now more than ever, she wants to lean over the edge and vomit up what little remains in her stomach. She could hardly eat this morning at all. She’s hardly eaten all week, for that matter, knowing that this attack was bound to happen so soon. Ration bars are bad enough without devastating guilt to kill her appetite. 

Once the Sea Gate is fully collapsed, the Horde advances through it. Throwing Horde banners up on every open stretch of air and sky. Defacing monuments, razing parks and gardens. Ordering people to emerge from their homes with their hands up, or face the deadly consequences. 

Eventually, Catra can’t take it anymore. She breaks from the rest of her squadron, claiming to need a break. She follows the familiar path down to the shore beside the collapsed arch that once held the Sea Gate. Once there, she drops to the ground. Drops to her knees—gasping for air all the while. Lungs rattling from smoke and self-loathing and panic. 

She clutches her elbows—to steady them, they’re shaking so uncontrollably. She can’t control the tears, either. They cascade from her eyes, down her nose, off her chin in trickles that leave wet splotches in the stone beneath her knees. 

On days like this, she doesn’t know how it’s possible. She doesn’t understand how anyone could have forgiven her after something like this. 

And now, she’s let it happen twice. _Twice_. 

Catra’s eyes find the stones of the arch beside her on the shore, having been shattered and strewn apart so completely. As she swipes at her tears with an elbow, she picks up one of the pieces in her hands. Her fingers run over the carefully-carved stone, feeling a series of patterned ridges under her touch. 

Scales. 

It must be a broken piece of one of the mermaid tails. The Sea Gate is—or was—flanked on both sides by two enormous mermaid statues. One mermaid remained largely intact, despite Horde Prime’s attack. But the other was entirely destroyed. The pieces crumbled to the shore here, and were fully eroded by the tide before the war was finished. 

It was something of a challenge for Catra to replicate the original designs. There were a couple photos and depictions of the original Sea Gate, but never one that went into the vivid detail required for someone to reproduce it perfectly. 

It’s good to know Catra got the scales right, at least—she was half-certain she formed them completely wrong. But they look exactly the same as the ones Catra made in the future. 

She laughs a little at the memory—at all the screaming frustration she poured into carving each and every scale—but the laugh gets garbled by tears that fill Catra’s nostrils.

Catra glances around. And sure enough, only a few feet away sits the greatest source of Catra’s frustration: the destroyed mermaid’s face. 

Supposedly, the mermaids had two different faces—back before the war. The one on the right modeled after Mermista’s great-great-grandmother, and the one on the left designed after her great-great-great-great grandmother. But there were no other depictions of them available beyond the original statues, so Catra was forced to completely guess what the great-great-great-great grandmother looked like. 

She struggled so much with that face. No matter how she carved it, it always came out slightly angry, or disdainful. Or just downright misshapen. Eventually, Mermista gave Catra permission to simply copy the face on the other statue. And that was what ultimately went up beside the gate. 

Still...Catra wonders what the original face looked like. She always thought that she’d never know—that she’d never restore that piece of history back to the kingdom she once destroyed. But maybe if Catra looks now...maybe if she memorizes that face, and recreates it later—

Catra stands and approaches it with as much eagerness as she can muster, swallowing tears with every step. Her knees sink into the ground beside the mass of stone. And then, carefully, she tips it upward—turning it toward herself to get the clearest possible view. 

Her eyes sweep the mermaid’s features. Taking in the shape of the eyes, the width of the nose, the serenely smiling lips—

Shaking her head, Catra squints up at the mermaid across the water—the one that still stands, its face intact. 

But…that doesn’t make any sense...

It doesn’t look any different. The mermaids have the same face. They’re identical, totally identical. Just as Catra remembers them.

But they’re not supposed to be. Mermista told Catra that. She told Catra that they had different faces. It was written in the Salineas history books too. Truly, it makes no sense, the face should be different than she remembers. It has to be different—

_“Force Captain Catra,_ ” a voice growls, crackling from Catra’s Force Captain’s badge. 

She freezes. Hordak. Hordak is calling her, looking for her. She’s been here too long, crying on the shoreline. 

“ _Where are you?_ ” he demands impatiently. “ _We’re advancing into the next territory._ ”

With a grunt of annoyance, Catra presses a finger into her badge. “I’m coming,” she hisses. “Just checking something before we go.”

She stands, throwing one last look in the direction of the mermaid’s face. Studying it with outraged disappointment. 

Why can’t Catra have this? This one small piece of the past that she never got to know. This whole time, they’ve only been reliving old memories or stealing poor imitations of the far better moments in their future. But whenever it’s something like this...an opportunity to learn something new…

It slips from her grasp. 

Was it never true at all? Were the mermaids identical all along? Did Catra do all that work for nothing? Nearly drive herself insane _for nothing_? 

“ _Force Captain!_ ” 

“Coming!” Catra shrieks into the badge. With no other choice—no moment to waste—Catra turns and begins climbing away from the shore and the face that taunts her. 

* * *

Days pass. Weeks. Months. They’re all slow in passing, but inevitable all the same. 

Adora hasn’t been meeting with Catra. They haven’t been talking much, either. Not since that argument. And whenever they do talk, it’s only to provide short updates to one another. 

“ _Scorpia’s gone. She’s on her way to you_.” 

“ _I talked to Razz. Got the information we needed on the Heart of Etheria. Glimmer should know soon_.”

“ _We’ve secured the Eastern Quadrant. If you need to order your people to retreat, I’d do it now_.”

The calls always end with quiet _I love you_ ’s _,_ just like before. But they sound wrong to Adora now. Out of place. And really, how could they not feel that way. Soft, sweet words like those don't belong in a time like this—a time when they’re supposed to be bitter enemies. 

That’s not to say that Adora doesn’t still love Catra. She does, she always will. They’re just exhausted, is all. The both of them. Every morning and every night is occupied with battles and war meetings. There’s nothing good to talk about, nothing they can say to one another to make their situation remotely okay. Adora has been reliving her worst fights with Glimmer; Catra has been repeating some of her most reprehensible conquests. 

And they’re just so far apart. So separated.

And hearing Catra’s voice doesn’t help. It’s only a tease of what Adora might have someday. And without it here, now, beside her, it only drives the knife deeper. Only tears wider fissures into Adora’s heart. 

But fear still simmers at the edge of Adora’s thoughts. The war is terrible right now, that much is true. But it’s about to get considerably worse. Soon, Glimmer will try to activate the Heart of Etheria. And Adora will be forced to nearly end the world.

And Catra…

Catra will be kidnapped by Horde Prime. Kidnapped alongside Glimmer and Hordak to be imprisoned, tortured, chipped—nearly killed.

It’s all Adora can think about. The Heart of Etheria. Horde Prime capturing Catra. Over and over, those two thoughts cycle through Adora’s brain, overwhelming Adora with memories of magic that burns like fire and visions of emotionless, glowing green eyes.

She’s afraid for herself. Even more terrified for Catra. Because even if their survival is more-or-less assured, it won’t change the amount of pain they’ll endure along the way. And that pain was beyond devastating the first time. 

It’s the night before Adora will head to Beast Island. She knows that everything will happen quickly, after that. The Heart of Etheria's activation. Horde Prime's arrival. 

Desperate for some form of comfort, she pulls the communicator from a drawer in her dresser and crawls into the bed, placing the device beside her head on the pillow. 

“Catra?” Adora whispers. “Are you there?”

For a long time, there’s no answer. Not even the crackle of static. Adora begins to wonder whether Catra’s asleep. 

Or maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to Adora.

But then—

“ _I’m here._ ”

Another weighty silence proceeds her words. As She-Ra, Adora has carried a great many heavy things. Tanks and boulders and spaceships. But none were so crushing as this quiet, this hush that portends a storm of disaster and suffering. 

Adora can barely see beyond a prism of tears. 

“I wish you were here,” Adora says. And even to her own ears, Adora’s voice sounds so small and brittle. “And not just because you make me happy but…” She inhales deeply. “I want you to be happy, Catra. I hate seeing you in pain, and I would gladly switch places with you if I could. I would take it all, no questions asked. The Horde and Horde Prime and Shadow Weaver—”

“ _Adora_ ,” Catra interrupts, outraged somewhat. Like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Like this is the last thing she wants to hear. “ _Stop. Stop, that’s not what I want—”_

“This hasn’t been fair. Nothing about this has been fair to you and it should’ve been me, not you. I’m supposed to protect you—”

_“Adora!”_ Catra’s voice rings out stern in the night, commanding that Adora stops and listens. _“Adora...I would rather die than have you sacrifice any piece of yourself for me. Do you hear me?_ ”

“I just...I don’t want you to go,” Adora sobs. Her body shudders. Her hands curl around the blankets, crushing the fabric within her fists. “I don’t want him to touch you, I don’t want anyone to hurt you like that ever again—”

“ _It’s okay, Adora. I’m okay with this—_ ”

“No,” Adora protests, still crying—her defiance strangled by tears. “We could still win, even if you don’t go. Maybe if you move out of range of Prime’s teleporter—”

“ _And what? Leave Glimmer to fend for herself? She’ll never make it off that ship without my help_.”

“You could warn her. You could both escape Prime before he ever captures you—”

“ _It’s a nice thought, Adora, but think about the consequences. Glimmer and Bow will never trust me. We’ll never meet Wrong Hordak, or Melog. A thousand things could go wrong if we change this.”_

“And a thousand things _will_ go wrong if we don’t!”

Another beat of quiet, thick and leaden as before. Adora can hardly breathe beneath it—the combination of tears and silence is beyond stifling.

“ _You’re right,_ ” Catra says finally. “ _Things will go wrong. I’ll get hurt._ ”

Adora closes her eyes, picturing it. Catra doesn’t like to describe the tortures Prime inflicted very much. She knows that they involved water, electricity. Things that Catra already hated, already feared. And was quickly made even more terrified of. 

And beyond that, there’s the mind control to consider. Adora knows how that feels, thanks to Light Hope. She knows how horrible it feels to be used, to be controlled. 

_“So yeah. It’s gonna suck. But…”_ Adora hears Catra give a little sigh. Not a sigh of exasperation, but rather, a longing sigh. 

“ _Adora_... _once it’s over, we’ll be together. I’ll have you, and you’ll have me. And not just in secret—but for real.”_

Slowly, Adora nods despite the fact that Catra can’t see her. It’s the only silver lining in all of this—that they’re nearing the end of their fights, their war, their enmity. Catra’s rescue from Horde Prime marked the start of their stumbling hope to repair their relationship. 

_“And truthfully?_ ” Catra continues. _“I’d relive Horde Prime a thousand more times if it meant ending up with you.”_

Another sob wracks its way through Adora’s body. “And you call me a sap.” 

She hears Catra chuckle over the communicator. “ _I love you, Adora. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s gonna take a lot more than time travel or alien conquerors or wars to keep us apart.”_

Adora smiles. It’s a small, splintering curve of the lips—wet with tears, quivering in each shaking breath. But it might be the first time she’s smiled in many weeks. 

“And I love you, Catra. And cannot wait to beat _the shit_ out of Horde Prime on your behalf.” 

Catra laughs, truly laughs. “ _God, I miss you._ ”

“I miss you more.”

_“Not everything’s a competition, you know._ ”

“I disagree,” says Adora. 

Catra hums like she expected as much. 

More silence. More weight.

“Please be safe, Catra,” Adora pleads. “Don’t...provoke him or anything. Just bide your time. I’ll rescue you, I promise.”

“ _Hey_ , _you’re the one who keeps trying to change the timeline. Don’t worry about me—I’ll make sure to be just as angsty and conflicted as before.”_

Adora snorts. But her voice softens considerably as she says: “I really do love you, Catra.” 

“ _Are you really gonna make me say it again?”_

“It might be warranted, given the circumstances.”

“ _Fine_ ,” says Catra jokingly. “ _I love you, despite how much you make me repeat myself_.”

* * *

Catra stands atop the roof of the Forge, tail flicking nervously. The altitude combing an unsettling, smog-filled breeze through her hair.

She should enjoy it while it lasts, Catra supposes. Her hair. It won’t be long before Horde Prime shears it all off. 

Catra resists a shudder and looks back out. For now, it’s easier to focus on what’s in front of her, rather than what lies ahead. 

Beneath her, the last of the Fright Zone’s troops are gathering supplies and weapons, loading themselves into tanks and skiffs. They’re moving out to attack Bright Moon, just as planned. Where they’ll be instantly ambushed and defeated by the princesses. 

She fought with Lonnie. Listened to Double Trouble’s lies. And Hordak…

“ _Force Captain_ ,” Hordak’s voice growls through Catra’s badge. Right on cue. “ _I require a report on the state of our occupation. Report to my sanctum immediately_.”

The first time, Catra complained about such a delay. She was so impatient to conquer Bright Moon, so confident that it would happen. She couldn’t stand to waste another moment talking to Hordak in his dull sanctum. 

But Catra knows the truth now. She knows what he’s summoning her for—revenge against her. An attempt to execute her. He’ll try to kill Catra for what she did to Entrapta. 

Not that Catra doesn’t deserve it.

So she doesn’t complain now. She merely presses a finger to her badge and says, “Be right there.”

Catra swivels her head from side to side, stretching the muscles and joints. Rolling her shoulders. Bouncing on her heels. It wasn’t easy, dodging Hordak’s weapon the first time. She’d best be ready to climb, to dodge, to _run_. 

Not that she’ll have far to run, once Horde Prime arrives. 

* * *

Adora inhales. Exhales. 

This is it, she supposes. The moment she’s been waiting for. 

Or rather, the moment Adora has been dreading. 

It feels like a nightmare when Adora finally arrives at the Crystal Castle. The planet has been balanced, thanks to Glimmer’s determination to activate the Heart. And a telling surge of magic has already claimed Adora’s body—near blinding her with its power. 

The sword burns white-hot in her hand. She wants to leave it in the woods and run far, far away from it. She wants to toss it over a cliff. 

But she can’t. Adora has to relive this. There’s no choice.

“Good. You are here,” Light Hope intones. “Now we can begin.”

As Light Hope begins speaking of fulfilling her programming, destroying the First Ones’ enemies, Adora feels her limbs seized by an invisible force. A disease of control, spreading from her sword into her body. Trying to lift the sword up, up, _up_ , to fire Etheria’s magic into the surrounding universe. 

But Adora _won’t_. She won’t let it happen. She didn’t let it happen then, and she won’t let it happen now. 

Her arms tremble as she struggles to force the sword back down. And then, finally, with a cry of exertion, she plunges it into the ground beneath her feet, collapsing to her knees beside it. Holding it there. 

She still trembles. Still resists that unseen hand that yanks her sword toward the ceiling. But now, at least, she presses down on it with the strength of her legs as well as her arms. 

Her arms. Adora glances at them and sees the strange glowing markings that so often fill her nightmares. Tiny snippets of First Ones writing, scrawled all over her body. Writing that speaks of control, of power, of magic and destruction. 

“This is your intended function,” says Light Hope. “You will bring the First Ones to glory. It is what you were born to do.”

“No!” Adora cries, voice shrill with panic. “No, I won’t!”

“The Heart of Etheria has been activated. You will be the one to fire it.”

* * *

“You try so hard to be the big, bad villain. But your heart’s never been in it. Has it?”

This time, when Double transforms, Shadow Weaver and Hordak are entirely ignored. 

Instead, they linger on Adora above all others. It’s an obnoxiously pretty version of her too—with eyes half-lidded, wearing only the gray tank top and shorts that comprise her usual nightclothes. 

Double Trouble, wearing Adora’s face, leans in close to Catra. Stroking Catra’s hair, pressing Catra’s hand against her cheek. Brushing a kiss against the heel of Catra’s hand. And it’s easy, too easy, to imagine that it’s really Adora standing in front of her. Reassuring away Catra’s nightmares in the dead of night. 

It’s a sight intended only to torment Catra, in this moment that she already dreads and fears and wants to run from. 

She knows they’ve been too obvious—Catra and Adora both. Too obvious with how they feel, if Double Trouble has been able to identify this much of what Catra wants most. 

But it doesn’t matter. Double Trouble won’t have the power to change fate. It’s just one small detail, one small change. And despite how Catra feels and fears, the world will continue to end as it’s supposed to. 

* * *

So many times before, Adora’s nightmares have featured her worst fear—that she _was_ the one to fire the Heart of Etheria, in the end. That she wasn’t able to stop herself from firing that magic off into the universe. That she, Adora, was responsible for the destruction of everyone and everything. 

She won’t let it come true. She won’t. Adora _won’t_ be controlled. 

“There is no stopping it now.”

Something yanks at the sword again—tugging more powerfully than ever—and Adora screams as she fights to keep the sword pointed downward, sheathed into the floor. 

Her attention is so fully devoted to this—to keeping the sword down—she hardly notices as a plume of magic descends down on her. A vapor that funnels into her sword, enveloping Adora within its breadth and power. 

Magic from the Heart of Etheria. 

For now, the sword holds that magic. But Adora knows that it will transfer into her body soon enough. She’ll have no choice. 

“With the planet balanced, portal capability is restored. Initiate planetary move out of the dimension of Despondos.”

For a moment, the runestone at the hilt of Adora’s sword only glows. A warning, of sorts, before what happens next. 

And then the magic rushes in. Dousing her muscles, her skin, her brain in fire. Pouring from the sword to her hand in an infinite stream, setting every nerve alight with incomprehensible, blinding pain. All thoughts evaporate from Adora’s mind. There is nothing to do, no air to breathe. There is only this. Only pain. Her mouth thrown open in an endless, agonized scream that she can hardly feel, she is so overwhelmed.

_Too much. It’s too much._

But it can’t be. Adora has to defeat this. She’s done it before, she can do it again—

“The Heart is primed and ready. Commencing activation.”

It takes every ounce of effort Adora has, but she manages to silence her screaming—manages to swallow the pain, despite how it builds within her. She wants to cry. Wants to curl up in a ball and weep until the future comes and frees her from this nightmare. But she knows it’s no good. She has to do this. She _has_ too.

Her body is a trembling, burning mess. And still she holds down the sword. 

“Look at all these stars, these worlds!” Adora pleads to Light Hope, just like before. “They'll all be destroyed. Mara sacrificed her life to stop this from happening!”

She pleads with Light Hope. Asking her to do what Mara wanted, to trust in Mara’s judgement. But it’s no use. Adora knows that from the last time. All she can do now is throw her weight upon the sword, keeping it plunged into the ground for as long as she can.

“This is our destiny,” Light Hope says, and waves a hand.

The sword lifts up, despite Adora’s best efforts. Up and up it goes, the gem at its hilt glowing dark red. A destructive, insidious color. Adora stares at it with horror, then grits her teeth—forcing it back down with all her might. Muscles shaking with the effort. 

“No!” Adora cries. “This is _not_ my destiny!”

“You—will— _comply_.”

Light Hope raises her hand again, and the sword raises with such force that Adora must stumble to her feet, babbling denials, refusals, groans of pain while she tries to force it back down. But it’s no use. 

Another relentless scream gushes from Adora’s lungs when the tip of the sword points toward the sky. The runestone glows a blinding blue, and Adora can feel the magic building within the sword, within _her_ —so eager to escape and incinerate everything…

The sword begins to glow ever-brighter. Adora runs out of air, reduced to whimpering—the magic burning, begging to be released. 

She won’t. She _won’t_. 

She can do this, she’s done it before. This isn’t her destiny. Her destiny is far from here, in Bright Moon. A universe of peace and happiness and friends and _Catra_ , laughing in Adora’s arms. She won’t lose that now. Not after everything—

“I won’t be controlled,” Adora grits out. “I am _not_ a piece of their machine. And I am going to end—this— _now_!”

With a cry, Adora renews her efforts to drag the sword downward. It’s harder, so much harder than it was only moments ago. Every inch she gains feels like it’s undone twice as fast. But still, she fights. Still, she forces her arms down, down, _down_ toward the floor, and the sword with it. 

“Don’t—do it. Don’t—”

Adora groans with exertion. _Down._ The sword will. Go. Down. 

“Do it.”

Light Hope lowers her hand. 

The hold on Adora relents. It’s all she needs. All she needs to do this. 

She twirls the sword until it’s pointing downward, and then, with one last scream, she smashes the sword's tip against the ground with every particle of her strength. Her strength—Adora’s, not She-Ra’s. 

And then, with a clang and a shattering of metal, the sword falls to pieces. 

Broken, crystalline shards chime delicately as they hit the floor. And without the sword to hold it—without She-Ra _willing_ to hold it—the magic dissipates. Imploding on itself, hurling itself back to the Heart. 

The room is enveloped in bright white light. 

And then everything goes dark. 

* * *

Catra presses her back into a wall of stone—a chunk of debris from her fight with Hordak, shattered on the ground behind her. 

She’s hiding. Waiting.

Though she doesn’t have to wait long. 

“Bow!” she hears Glimmer cry, from beyond the stone that separates them. And it’s with the yelling of that name that Catra realizes that it's over—that her time is up. 

“I’m coming!” 

Bow’s voice. Distant. Too far away. He’ll never make it in time. Not then, and not now. 

And then there’s green. Green light, everywhere. Filling every space, covering every surface. Catra’s hands glow with it. Her body feels almost vaporous beneath it—lightheaded and tingly. Like layers of Catra are being yanked away, bit and bit. Brought somewhere high above and far away. 

She wishes she doesn’t recognize the sensation. But she does. She could never forget it. 

They’re all lifted into the air slightly—Catra, Glimmer, Hordak—as though tugged upward by invisible strings. Catra shuts her eyes tight, stabbing her claws into the stone at her back to ground herself. She wills herself to breathe steadily. To find calmness in this part of her past that promises only terror. 

And when she opens her eyes, Catra is there. In that place that haunts her worst nightmares.

Horde Prime’s ship. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora has a bad dream.
> 
> Horde Prime plays dumb. 
> 
> And Catra realizes something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for over 40 comments on the last chapter, and 900 kudos! It inspires me a lot, so please keep it up!
> 
> I also understand that some upsetting things happened in the She-Ra fandom this week. I posted something [here](https://catra-adoras.tumblr.com/post/627607003622244352/hey-all-just-wanted-to-make-a-post-on-what) about it. This show means a lot to me personally, but I want to make it clear that She-Ra and its creators should be viewed and analyzed critically—none of them are free of biases or flaws. 
> 
> And now, without further ado...chapter eight.

Adora walks down a long, dark platform. All around her is an enormous, hollow ribcage of a chamber—one with green lights blinking on distant walls. Her shadow slithers ahead of her in tall, grossly elongated strides. 

Some distance before her sits a dais. It’s wide. Perfectly even and symmetrical. Raised above the ground on a thin neck of metal, suspended by sprawling, curvilinear buttresses. 

It’s all bone white. The platform, the dais, the architecture. The color strikes a stark contrast to the darkness of the room. 

And there, at the center of the dais, is a throne. From here, Adora can see that it’s empty. The whole room is empty, in fact—save Adora herself. And yet she keeps walking. She knows she must. She’s here for something. Or rather...for someone. 

Her pace slows as she climbs the stairs to the dais. She stares at that throne all the while, squinting as though it might be abruptly filled by an enemy. 

But it never is. Unless that enemy sits invisible, the throne remains empty. 

Adora glances around, not sure what to do. She’s here for someone. That’s all she knows. But there’s no one here—Adora is all alone. 

Or so she thinks.

“Hello, Adora,” a voice greets, eerily familiar—even more eerily polite.

Adora spins around. Her vision finds a pair of eyes that she doesn’t recognize. Bright green, glowing. Emotionless. But around them is a face she knows better than any other. Freckles across the cheeks. Smile curved with the promise of mischief. 

Her hair has been shorn. Her body, forced into clothes she would never choose to wear—bright white, Horde Prime’s emblem emblazoned across her chest. 

Catra. She merely stands there, staring. Unmoving. 

“ _I’m going to take you home_ ,” Adora tries to say, but her voice fails her. No matter how she tries, she can’t say a word. 

Instead, Adora tries to reach out. To step forward. Her hand outstretched, reaching, _reaching_ —

But then it all starts to crumble away. All of it—the room, the walls, the floor—it begins to disintegrate. Breaking into bits, with every disappearing piece threatening to plunge Catra and Adora into the surrounding abyss. 

But no. When Adora looks up, a silent scream building in her throat, Catra is disintegrating too—breaking into pieces before her very eyes. Just like she did when the portal took her, really took her, dissolving her into nothing. 

Adora doesn’t make it in time. When she reaches Catra, she’s _gone_. Nothing but bits of dust in Adora’s hands. Dead particles clinging to her clothes, filling her lungs and eliciting coughs. 

Tears squeeze from Adora’s eyes. She drops to her knees, crushed by this failure—this loss. There’s nothing now, nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for—

The platform collapses entirely. Adora doesn’t try to fight, doesn’t try to run. What would be the point? Catra’s gone, gone forever, and Adora can’t. She _can’t_. 

When the floor disappears, Adora is glad to meet the chasm below. Falling, falling, into darkness—

Adora shoots upright in bed with gasp. Her head swivels, hoping to find Catra beside her on the bed—seeking, desperately, for reassurance of the dream’s falseness. Wanting to bury her face in her wife’s neck, to stifle her terror with Catra’s deep breathing and sleeping purrs. 

But there’s nothing beside her. Adora is on a narrow cot—military-grade, one that can’t hold more than a single person. To her right, the sword sits shattered on a small bedside table, with only the fabric wall of the surrounding tent lying beyond it. 

There's nothing else. No one else. 

Memory returns to Adora slowly. 

They’re in the past, she remembers. Adora is here, in the rebel camp. And Catra is elsewhere—somewhere in space, on Horde Prime’s flagship. Preparing to rescue Glimmer. Waiting for Adora’s rescue in turn. 

Adora knows it’s not much longer now. In less than a week, the First Ones ship will be prepped and ready to make its voyage into space. She and Bow will rescue Glimmer, then Catra, then the whole universe—

But...short of a wait as it is...Adora can hardly stand it. 

Adora lies back down and closes her eyes. She wills herself to dream about the time before—or after—this. The bed she’ll share with Catra in Bright Moon. Catra’s laughter as Adora used to tickle her stomach. The kisses Catra would press into the back of Adora’s palms. 

Soon, Adora assures herself. They’ll be together soon.

* * *

Catra feels like livestock penned into the slaughterhouse. 

Even during that first time on Horde Prime’s ship, Catra sensed what kind of danger she was in. She knew that he could kill her easily—and would do so at his earliest convenience. But back then, she still hoped that she’d find a way into Prime’s good graces. Or even believed herself capable of escaping his clutches.   
  
But this is a different beast entirely. It’s one thing to suspect that her life is threatened. But it's another thing to know exactly what awaits her—the torture, the mind control, the brutal attempt to kill her…

Catra spends half her time fighting off panic attacks. It’s nearly impossible to maintain her composure. But she knows that she must. To keep appearances, if nothing else. 

Horde Prime must see how nervous she is. That was always a talent of his—reading people like open books. Using their own thoughts and fears and feelings against them. Does he know what she's hiding? Does he know that _she knows_ what he plans to do?  
  
Over and over again, Catra assures herself that he doesn't. He doesn't yet have access to her mind, and likely won't ever know the truth (assuming, of course, that their memories of the future are as unreadable as Adora claims). If anything, Catra probably seems as nervous as she did the first time. And she survived that unscathed, didn’t she? 

Well, not exactly unscathed, but _alive_. 

She attends the dinner Horde Prime hosted for Glimmer. She keeps her eyes focused on the plate in front of her, refusing to meet Glimmer’s frightened eyes or Horde Prime’s calculating gaze.

Catra can’t bring herself to eat, though. She just pushes the food around on her plate. 

Horde Prime threatens Glimmer under a thin veneer of politeness, just as before. Talking of long-dead worlds that were “much like Etheria” before Prime blasted them to dust. The conversation makes Catra feel all the more ill. 

“Speaking of Etheria...you must miss it terribly,” Horde Prime remarks with a demeaning sort of pity. “Would you like to see your homeworld now?”

Catra grimaces, knowing what they’ll soon be forced to watch. 

Horde Prime snaps his fingers. The screen behind him blares to life. 

Catra tries to avert her eyes, but it’s impossible to fully block it out. The screen is simply too large—it takes up an entire wall of the room. And she can hear it all, every sound, even with her gaze pointed elsewhere. The crackle of burning tents. The shrill percussion of blaster fire. The screams and cries of the rebels who run and fight for their lives.

Eventually, it becomes too painful—too demanding of her most morbid curiosity—to ignore. She looks up to see Bow gasping for breath, Perfuma struggling to fend off bots, Scorpia sprinting to someone’s aid. 

And then, of course, there’s Adora. Sprinting, fleeing, panting hard with every bounding step. Sweat pouring down her face. Blaster fire knocks her off her feet, forcing her to tumble across the ground—the staff flying from her hand. 

Catra resists the urge to wince at Adora’s cries. She wants to reach through the screen and grab hold of her. She wants to drag herself and Adora to safety. To some quiet hole somewhere, where they will never again be tormented by wars or alien conquerors or time travel. 

“Ah. Here she is. Your beacon of hope.”

Catra can’t take her eyes off of her. She wishes, despite herself, that Adora would just turn into She-Ra and be done with it. Adora must know how. Her knowledge of the future should give her that ability, even without her sword. 

_Adora will be okay_ , Catra assures herself. Even without the sword. Even without She-Ra. Fate is on Adora’s side. 

But still, she allows her claws to scrape into the tabletop. It’s a luxury she can afford—this violent act of grounding herself. She acted no differently the first time. 

Catra knows that she won’t be here long. But even these short moments—this one dinner, and the wanderings of the ship that preceded it—feel like an eternity. 

* * *

When the ship finally takes off—speeding toward the heart of Horde Prime’s empire—Adora breathes her first sigh of relief in weeks. 

Anxiousness is an overgrown weed in her chest. It constricts her breathing and hunches her shoulders, making her feel as though she’s slowly being crushed from the inside. 

She’s worried about Catra. Worried about Glimmer. She can’t stop being worried, despite knowing how it all ends. 

She looks to Bow, who appears nearly as anxious—pacing the ship and glancing at the stars at irregular intervals. In her future, Bow and Glimmer are married as well. They love each other deeply. And Adora knows that this can’t be easy for him either, with Glimmer missing. 

Though it’s likely significantly worse for him, considering that he doesn’t know whether she’s alright. Adora at least knows that there’s a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. Or rather, a light somewhere in this enormously dark expanse of space. 

“Bow.” Adora stands and places both hand on Bow’s shoulders, stilling his pacing. The smile she shoots him is fragile— weak and trembling—but she does her best to make it seem reassuring. “It’s going to be okay, Bow. I promise. We’ll rescue them.”

He raises a confused eyebrow. “Them?”

Realizing her mistake, Adora shuffles her feet and clears her throat. “I meant her. We’ll rescue her. Glimmer.”

* * *

The first time, Catra wasted hours staring out the windows of Horde Prime’s ship. Watching the procession of planets pass beneath them, each of them reduced to smoldering, life-purged planets by the time Prime had moved beyond them. 

But now she doesn’t. She can’t stand it. Catra has traveled the wide universe in her time. She has seen the devastation Horde Prime inflicted firsthand—the planets and civilizations he reduced to ash, the families he tore to pieces, the populations he enslaved. 

Seeing those planets destroyed only churns Catra’s stomach, worsening the feeling of sickness that continues to plague her with every moment aboard this ship.

Instead, she spends more time at Glimmer’s cell. Glimmer is more of a comfort than ever before. So eager to share stories about Bright Moon and Adora and Bow and the other princesses—stories that remind Catra of her own time in Glimmer’s kingdom. And really, that’s all Catra wants right now. To be home with Adora and Glimmer and Bow and the rest of their friends. 

“What about you?” Glimmer asks. “What would you be doing if you were back on Etheria?” 

The first time Catra was asked that question, she had no good answer. None at all. She had pushed all her friends away. She had let the Horde get destroyed. She had made herself an enemy of the rebellion. After everything, Catra simply thought that she had no place in the universe, let alone on Etheria, the planet she had made a mess of.

But now Catra knows. She knows exactly what she’d be doing, back on Etheria. She’d find Adora in that rebel camp of her. She'd hold Adora close, kiss her senseless and curl up beside her. Tell her, again and again, how much she’s missed her—

But it’s no use dwelling on what-ifs. Catra has to see this through. 

* * *

When Glimmer turns in for the night, Catra occupies herself by walking the halls of Horde Prime’s ship. 

She didn’t explore it much the first time. Mostly, she just lurked around Glimmer’s cell, or stared out the window at the stars. But Catra is simply too nervous to sit still—too certain that if she settles down, she’ll end up thinking too much about the tortures that rapidly approach. 

She walks, finding a corridor that she saw the first time—one brightly illuminated, one dark. She chose the bright corridor before. Now, she chooses the dark one, just to see what lies beyond it. 

Her eyes are well-adjusted to the dark—she should be able to see fine regardless. But she notices that, even as she walks down it, the hallway looks no different than the _other_ hallway did in her memory. Same tightly shut doorways. Same white walls and curved architecture. Really, the only visible difference is the lack of light. 

She keeps walking, hoping to find the artifact room that Glimmer once mentioned—the collection of trophies from worlds that Horde Prime once conquered. She never knew what the room looked like—never saw it. But she figured it would just be something to do, something to see. A way to occupy her eyes and keep her attention from her own thoughts. 

But no matter how she walks onward, no matter where she goes, all the hallways look familiar. Too familiar. Like she’s walked every single inch of this ship before. 

She never sees anything new. Not the room of artifacts. Not the server room that Bow once described. She only finds the hallways she has traveled before—the routes back to Glimmer’s cell, or Horde Prime’s throne, or the transporter. 

Catra isn’t mistaken in this, either. The few hallways she saw before being rescued—she’d recognize them anywhere. After a thousand nightmares about this ship, they’re utterly impressed on her memory. 

And yes, she knows that this ship is supposed to be some sort of maze. But this? This is truly ridiculous. There has to be something, _anything_ on this ship that Catra hasn’t seen before. 

Catra’s tail flicks in frustration. Why does this keep happening? Why is Catra always robbed of anything different, anything _new_? Why is she forced to repeat the past exactly as it was? 

There are so many instances of it, too. The screwy geography of the Whispering Woods. The identical mermaid statues at Salineas. It seems like every time she seeks something beyond her own memories, she’s yanked right back to the familiar. Yanked right back to the places and moments she’s seen before. 

It never ends. Even when Catra or Adora ask people questions—seeking answers to things they don’t yet know—they receive no new information. Madame Razz revealed nothing to help them return to the future. Even Entrapta—princess of all things science—claimed to have no knowledge of time travel. 

Catra still doesn’t know how it was possible. Since when was there a scientific question that Entrapta couldn’t answer or theorize about? 

Never. Never once. Entrapta was the one who sent them here, for god’s sake. Through time rather than space. Surely, she would know. Surely, she would have considered this—

Entrapta. Entrapta, who built the portal that sent them to the past. 

And what about that _other_ portal, the one that Catra opened here, in this repeat of her own life? What exactly did she see in there? She assumed she was hallucinating...delirious with pain and fear, struck by false visions of monsters with blood-red faces. 

But there was something else, too. Something she heard. A deep sound, like the fluttering of wings. It had been years since she heard that noise, and yet...

Entrapta once gave Catra a device that made that sound. It was to help her get home after entering the portal—to help her find her way back. 

While inside the portal, Catra heard it. She _heard_ that dull thrum. That unsettling, distant shuffling. Initially, she thought she was hallucinating that too. The device was gone, after all. It’s been lost ever since she woke in the past. 

But what if…

Catra slams her eyes shut, forcing her breathing into some semblance of a calm, regular pace. 

She listens. Listens and listens, devoting her entire attention to the task—trying, desperately, to allow Horde Prime’s ship to fade from her notice. She focuses on sound and sound alone. First, the beat of her own heart. And then what lies beyond it. Anything. Any sound at all—

And then, slowly, like she’s listening through a wall, she hears it. That heavy, fluttering noise somewhere in the distance. Continuous. Unsettling. But there all the same. 

There’s no way it could be here, in space, _and_ in the portal. No way at all. 

Catra’s eyes fly open. Something is wrong. Something is _very_ wrong. 

She remembers so many conversations with Adora. Moments when they both wondered why Light Hope couldn’t read Adora’s memories of the future, or why they remember things that no longer happened. But they brushed them all off as being wacky affordances of time travel, they were so intent on finding a way back to their future. 

But what if they weren’t just some strange rules of time travel? What if they were flaws, genuine flaws, in this version of the past?

It wouldn’t be the first flaw, either. She remembers walking through the Bright Moon gardens and spotting Angella’s memorial in her periphery—despite the fact that Angella hadn’t yet sacrificed herself. 

What if it was there because Catra remembered it being there, even when she shouldn’t have? What if her brain had confused the past and present, and so had the world around her? 

What if….what if this isn’t the past at all?

What if this is just something constructed from her memories? Her memories—Catra’s—and all the flaws and confusion that come with them? 

“Little sister,” a voice chides, breaking Catra from her frantic thoughts. A clone has appeared beside her, suddenly. He looks down at her sternly, as though he caught her doing something wrong. “You are not permitted in this part of the ship.”

Catra narrows her eyes at him, scrutinizing the clone from head to toe. The pale skin. The glowing green eyes. He looks exactly as Catra remembers them—the clones. But perhaps that’s the problem. 

“Right,” Catra says. “So sorry about that, I didn’t know. But...while I have you here, maybe you could help me with something—?”

The clone looks taken aback. “Help you?”

“Yeah,” says Catra, casually. She leans closer to the clone, assuming an air of innocence. “I’m looking for more information on Lord Prime. So I can, y’know, worship him more accurately. Why don’t tell me all about Prime’s history. What are some of the planets he’s conquered?”

She is asking because she doesn’t know. After the war, the destroyed planets in Horde Prime’s wake were too numerous to count, or remember. There must have been millions of them, all of them identical to their fellows—reduced to ash and rubble. 

The clone doesn’t answer. But obviously, that doesn’t make sense—the clones should know everything about Horde Prime’s military conquests. They share a hive mind, don’t they? And besides, they always loved gushing about Horde Prime’s glory or whatever. 

Catra raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

The clone takes a stumbling step back. “Well,” he hesitates. “We shall conquer Etheria soon enough.”

Etheria, he says, but no other planets. Catra can’t say he’s wrong, exactly, because she doesn’t know. She never will. 

But he should know. _He_ should, even if she doesn’t. 

“Here’s an easy one,” Catra says. “How does cloning work? Scientifically, I mean. I mean, you _are_ a clone. You should know.”

Catra has pointedly never asked Entrapta this question—she simply didn’t wish to know the details of Hordak (or Wrong Hordak’s) conception. But even if she can’t verify a right answer, she’s fairly good at spotting a lie when she sees one. 

The clone’s lips settle into a thin, frustrated line. He merely stares, saying nothing. 

“You don’t know, do you?” Catra says gloatingly. “You don’t know anything that I don’t.”

Out of nowhere, another clone appears beside Catra—grabbing her arm, causing her to start. The first clone grabs her too, seizing the other arm in an unbreakable grip. 

“What are you—?” Catra demands, but the question dies in her throat. They drag her back down the hallways from where she came, roughly pulling her toward a part of a ship that Catra knows too well—and fears above all others. 

Wordlessly, they toss Catra to the foot of Horde Prime’s throne. Onto her knees. Her palms lie flat upon the ground. 

“Little sister,” Prime says, in a voice that sounds _exhausted_ with disappointment. “Why must you resist my orders? You continue speaking to the queen, despite my explicit forbiddance. And now you overstep your bounds, traveling to off-limits areas of the ship, demanding prohibited information of my brothers—”

Catra merely squints at him. Her every molecule _screams_ that she should be afraid of him, of this green, multi-eyed monster who once hurt her so badly. Who sits casually upon a throne, all too gleeful to find Catra helpless at his feet. 

But she just…

She doesn’t think that he’s _real_. Not anymore.

“Yeah, well,” says Catra, surprising herself with how confident she sounds. “They weren’t much help, your brothers. They couldn’t help me. But maybe you can. You are the head honcho, after all—”

He narrows his eyes at her, mouth twisting in displeasure. “What are you—”

“How does...teleportation work?” Catra asks, wracking her memory for topics that she’s always wondered about. “Or mind control, for that matter. How exactly does one create a _hive mind_?”

No answer. He only watches her, and she watches back. 

“What about that amniotic fluid stuff? Care to explain that? Or maybe describe the culture of a single planet you’ve conquered. Go on—just one.”

For a moment, he says nothing. But then he snarls, averting his gaze from Catra’s expectant expression—her raised eyebrow and triumphant smile. “I do not have to explain anything to a _lesser_ being.” 

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Catra says. “Horde Prime loved to talk. Loved it more than anything else, really. He’d never waste an opportunity to prove how much smarter he was than everyone else. Not that it saved him in the end.”

The entire room freezes. Everyone—Prime, the clones, the screens behind Prime’s head. 

“You’re not Horde Prime,” Catra says. “I don’t know what you are but...you’re _not_ Horde Prime. And this isn’t the past. I didn’t go back in time at all—I’m still there. I’m still inside Entrapta’s portal. And this?” Catra glances around, admiring every vivid detail of the throne room that surrounds her. “This is all fake. A world constructed from my memories—even when my memories are wrong.”

The room remains frozen. Prime, the clones—they say nothing. Do nothing. All goes eerily silent.

“Whoever you are,” Catra growls. “You got sloppy.” She extends her claws. “And you’re going to be sorry for trying to trick me.”

Nothing happens. Nothing at all. 

But then it all begins _melting_. Everything. Prime. The clones. The surrounding ship. The platform beneath Catra’s feet. It’s like paint dripping down a black canvas, the colors all blurring and mixing and pooling together. Oozing into a dark place beyond Catra’s vision.

The world around Catra utterly dissolves until she’s floating in a blank, empty nothing. Just like when she entered the _other_ portal in this strange illusion of the past. 

She gasps. So it’s true. It was all fake. All of this, every moment—

“Well, look at you,” a woman’s voice echoes in the darkness, sounding amused—if not a little frustrated. “Aren’t you the observant one?”

Catra glances around in fright, searching for the source of the voice. She shivers—for whatever reason, she suddenly feels half-frozen, like she’s been sitting for hours without a jacket on a cold, dead fall morning.

And then _something_ appears. A vaporous figure, materializing from the darkness in the same way the rest of the world dissolved—like paint being poured across a canvas. It looms over Catra from an enormous height. 

A dark red cloak, flowing wide as a pair of wings around that impossibly tall body. A long curtain of hair, just as wide and stark white, curling and twisting in an invisible wind. And there, finally, is the face that Catra has seen before—bright red with blank eyes and lips twisted into a smile. Long lashes and sharp cheekbones—beautiful, almost, if not for the almost demonic red skin and empty eyes. 

She leans over Catra, a hand placed delicately beneath her red chin—as if intrigued by the sight set before her.

“You know, you really hurt me, Catra,” she says—pouting. Complaining as though Catra is an old friend who seeks to tease her. “Calling me sloppy? Do you know how hard I worked to make this realistic for you? You kept changing things, you and that wife of yours. I had to improvise quite a bit to keep things going. Or to keep you two apart—” 

She shakes her head, skin glistening like blood in the darkness. “Mortal memories...now _those_ are what’s sloppy. Always misremembering things. Always paying insufficient attention.”

“W-who…” Catra stammers. “Who are you?”

The woman’s lips spread into an even wider smile, rows of sharp teeth flashing white as her eyes. 

“Oh, I’ve had many names over the millennia,” she recalls somewhat wistfully. “But you can call me Chasm.” 

Fury bubbles within Catra. Chasm. So _that_ was the name of this monster. Chasm. The creature who trapped Catra in the past—or an illusion of it, anyway. Who forced Catra to relive her worst memories and mistakes. 

“What _are_ you?” Catra demands in disgust. 

Chasm laughs. “Something much, much older—and more powerful—than you can imagine.”

Catra wants to scream. Wants to fight. Her claws extend, hungry to attack… but she’s half-certain that this place—and Chasm—would turn to vapor beneath her touch. Because even if the show has stopped—even if the replay of her memories has ceased—Catra is still inside a dream of some sort. Nothing she does is real. 

“And why would some ancient _thing_ who I’ve never met trap me in an illusion for god-knows-how-long—”

Chasm laughs again, louder than ever. It echoes a thousand times in the darkness, almost like they’re inside Bright Moon’s largest ballroom rather than this empty, open space. A finger comes to swipe at Chasm’s eyes—as though brushing away a tear. 

“Oh, that’s adorable. You really think this is just about you.” 

Catra blinks. “Then what—”

Chasm chuckles and raises a finger in the air, drawing designs in the darkness. From her finger, colors form, spilling until they form an image—like a little window to another universe. 

She sees metal. Stars sliding beyond glass. A flash of a blonde ponytail as a body sinks into a seat. 

Adora. It’s Adora that Catra is seeing. Curled up in a chair at the center of Darla’s main deck. 

“I’m coming, Catra,” Adora whispers to no one in particular, and then closes her eyes. 

And then the image shifts. Suddenly, it’s not Adora but _She-Ra_ , lying on a patch of what appears to be dirty fabric. Her body glowing faintly, an enormous pile of golden hair pooling around her. Both of She-Ra’s eyes are shut tight and fluttering, like she’s suffering through a terrible nightmare.

And around her waist...the rope. Or whatever remains of the rope that Catra tied around her, in the hopes of leading her home.

Chasm giggles and swipes through the window, the colors spilling back into darkness—into silence. 

Catra hoped, however briefly, that the Adora in the illusion was fake as well. That the real Adora would never truly have to go through the misery of reliving every moment of her past. It was a painful thought, yes. That every moment together in that dream was illusory, empty, _false_. But it would be better than wishing a single moment of this pain and fear on Adora. 

But it seems that she was wrong. That Adora—she was real. She was Catra’s Adora. And unlike Catra, she hasn’t realized that there’s anything wrong. She’s still trapped in her memories—in Chasm’s illusion. 

“Adora,” Catra gasps. “You’ve got Adora too.” 

Chasm merely smiles. “A joint illusion. A more complex spell, but far easier to maintain.” Chasm shoots Catra a pitying look. “Though in the end, I only need to keep one of you. And between She-Ra and you, Catra…” Chasm laughs. “Well...let’s just say that _you_ weren’t the one I was rooting for.”

Catra clenches her fists. No. _No_. There’s no way that Chasm is keeping Adora. Catra will find her and wake her up. They’ll escape the portal together and get home and—

“Get out,” Catra grits out. 

That wipes the smile from Chasm’s face. She straightens, looking down disdainfully at Catra from an even greater height. 

“Get out!” Catra screams. “Get out of my head!” 

Suddenly, a fissure forms in the darkness that surrounds them. A crack of light, spilling endless brightness and hope for escape. 

“Listen to me, little fool—” Chasm hisses. “You don’t tell _me_ what to do.” 

“This is my mind! _My_ brain!” Catra screams. “I call the shots about what happens here. And I say… Get! Out!”

More and more cracks form in the darkness, giving way to bright, welcoming light. Chasm gives an inhuman, furious shriek at the sight of it. 

“Fine!” Chasm snarls. “I don’t need you to finish Adora’s story. In fact…” She smiles wickedly, sharp teeth glinting. “I think it’d be better off without you entirely.” 

But Catra isn’t listening. She just keeps screaming those two words. _Get out. Get out. Get out_. 

More cracks. More light, the darkness evaporating beneath it. And then, with a cruel laugh, so does Chasm. Dissolving into wisps of red vapor. 

The light gets brighter and brighter. Eventually, Catra cries out, it is so bright, so blinding—

* * *

Catra shoots upright—panting, gasping. Her chest heaving in panic, her claws clutching at the ground. There’s an ache throughout her tail and spine, like she’s been lying on a hard surface for too long. 

And she suspects that she has. Her nails scrape gouges into the cool, rough dirt beneath her fingers. That same dirt presses into her legs, its cold dampness soaking through her clothes. Catra shivers. 

Cold. It is _so_ cold here. Catra raises her hands to her arms, trying to rub feeling back into them—trying to wipe away the goosebumps that rise beneath the thin layer of fur that covers her skin. 

Catra glances up and around, taking in her surroundings—not that there are many surroundings to take in. Dull gray skies over a dull gray ground, jagged rock spires and boulders interspersing the somewhat hilly landscape. No trees. No animals. No water. Just gray, gray, _gray_ as far as the eye can see. 

She hears something, too. That deep fluttering of wings somewhere nearby. It makes her ears twitch, it is so loud and clear and unsettling. 

The low-frequency emitter. It’s right there, beside her on the ground. She must have dropped it. 

Catra is here, finally. Awake inside the portal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's definitely time travel hahaha... unless?
> 
> So. The horrifying truth of this fic has been revealed—this fic does, in fact, include an OC villain. Tell me what you think! This is probably my first time ever including a _completely_ original character in a fic so... please be kind. I promise there's more info about Chasm coming. 
> 
> Also the amazing [@hedarey](https://hedarey.tumblr.com/) / [kateimations](https://www.instagram.com/kateimations/) created some fantastic art for Chasm! Please check out more of her incredible work!  
> 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora misses a phone call.
> 
> Catra goes for a long walk.
> 
> And a familiar face makes a reappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late—had some posting trouble. ao3 did a weird thing and i couldn't be sure if it worked, so sorry if there were duplicate notifications. 
> 
> thanks for over 1k kudos and 15k hits! i'm completely in awe, thanks so much everyone for helping me hit these milestones!
> 
> I was also super relieved at the response to the "twist" and Chasm's introduction. Introducing OCs is very scary and I was def nervous. But so many people were so supportive in the (over 60) comments last chapter! As always, keep it up! Your feedback is what keeps me going.
> 
> also, last chapter, an amazing commenter discussed the possibility of doing art for this fic. Legit, nothing would make me happier than people making art of my work so please do!

Adora paces the main deck of the ship. She’s bitten her thumbnail down to the nub by now—a byproduct of the endless gnawing and pacing. Over and over, she walks from one end of the ship to the other, staring at the console at the front of the deck, willing it to light up with some sort of notification. 

But there’s nothing. No matter how she watches, no matter how she wills otherwise, Darla stays silent. The ship keeps going, the stars passing peacefully over the hull as they make their way to the heart of Horde Prime’s empire. 

Adora can’t suffer the wait anymore. Though, admittedly, she hasn’t waited for any sort of long intervals. When she turns to the ship’s console, it must be for the tenth time in the last hour. 

“Darla!” she half-yells. “Check again. Is the ship receiving any transmissions?”

There is a brief pause before Darla says, “There are zero incoming transmissions and zero open communication lines.” 

The way that the AI’s voice replies—it’s so stilted. So emotionless. It feels mocking, almost, compared to the simmering panic that rolls through Adora’s entire body. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” Adora asks. “Not even something faint? Or something from an enemy ship—”

“There are zero incoming transmissions and zero open communication lines,” Darla repeats, just as calmly and matter-of-factly as before.

Adora shuts her eyes and shrieks in frustration, slamming her fist against the console. The metal creaks and groans, denting slightly beneath the force of the blow.

“No, no, no!” Adora cries shrilly, beyond coherence—beyond calmness. “There has to be something. She should’ve called, we should’ve gotten her—”

“Adora!” Bow calls warningly, stepping forward to wrap a hand around her wrist. His trembling grip is all that keeps her from inflicting further damage on their already-falling-apart ship. “Stop it! Adora—stop. You need to calm down.”

Adora shakes her head frantically, refusing to look at Bow directly. Instead, she keeps herself focused on the console. Still, she hopes that Darla will announce an incoming transmission...even as the prospect becomes more unlikely by the second. 

She swallows thickly, seeking to gulp down the tears that threaten to erupt from her eyes. She can’t panic. Not yet. She’s not even sure that anything’s truly wrong—

“I don’t understand,” says Bow, eyeing Adora like she’s some sort of startled animal. “What sort of transmission are you waiting for?” 

Adora merely shakes her head again, knowing that she can’t explain. It’s bad enough that she’s giving herself away like this—revealing that she knows more than she’s letting on. That she’s awaiting something she shouldn't be able to anticipate at all.

Except...

Except it’s _not_ playing out the way it’s supposed to. Not anymore. Catra should’ve called from Horde Prime’s ship _hours_ ago—shortly after Entrapta restored Darla to full power. Glimmer should be aboard Darla by now. Here, beside Adora and Bow. And Catra...

But Glimmer’s not here. And Catra hasn’t transmitted any sort of call. None at all. She hasn’t heard even the faintest recording of Catra’s voice. 

Something must have gone wrong. Something must have changed—

“Adora,” Bow says. “You should go to the bunks and get some sleep.”

She glances at him. His gaze is focused on the spot just beneath her eyes—where there is most certainly a pair of dark circles that evidence her exhaustion. She hasn’t been sleeping much since Horde Prime arrived. And when she does sleep, she’s always plagued by nightmares.

“It won’t help,” mutters Adora. “I won’t be able to sleep until—”

“Until what? We get some sort of call?” Bow shakes his head. “You’re delirious, Adora. And if we’re gonna rescue Glimmer from Horde Prime, I’m going to need you well-rested.”

_No,_ Adora wants to scream. Glimmer should already be rescued by now. This isn’t making any sense. Why didn’t Catra call? What happened? What’s keeping her? 

But there’s nothing Adora can do. Nothing, except let Bow lead her to her bunk. 

Adora exhales deeply, trying to calm herself. Maybe this isn’t a bad thing. Maybe Catra found a way to get both herself and Glimmer to safety. Maybe she isn’t calling because she discovered a way to avoid being chipped, and doesn’t have the means to tell Adora just yet—

Adora just has to keep moving. Even if things end up slightly different than the first time. It’s likely that Glimmer and Catra are still there, on Prime’s ship. And Adora will still be able to rescue them when she arrives. 

But as she tries and fails to fall asleep, nervousness winds tightly in her stomach. She can’t shake the feeling that something is really, truly, irreparably wrong. 

* * *

Catra staggers to her feet, shaking and rubbing the soreness from her limbs and back. 

How long was she unconscious? Hours? Weeks? _Years?_

She looks at her hands, examining them for wrinkles or gray hair. She’s relieved to discover that they look the same as they always have. Light brown fur and smooth, slightly calloused skin beneath it.

So...probably not years. But the hunger pangs in Catra’s stomach indicate that she’s been here for at least a day, if not several. 

She hardly remembers anything after stepping through the portal. And considering that she hadn’t even tried to hide the frequency emitter, she suspects that Chasm knocked her out as soon as she arrived. 

Which means…

“Adora?” 

Catra clamps a hand over her own mouth, rolling her eyes at her own foolishness. She called the name on a desperate impulse. Only now does she remember that if Adora is nearby, she’s likely still trapped in Chasm’s illusion—completely unconscious and unable to respond. 

The thought makes Catra’s skin crawl. Catra’s mind has been invaded before, by Horde Prime—her memories replayed and perused for his entertainment and benefit. The thought of someone else doing that...taking advantage of Catra’s thoughts and memories…

Catra shudders. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all Adora. She needs to find Adora before…

Well, she doesn’t exactly know what Chasm wants with Adora. Really, she doesn’t know what Chasm wanted from either of them. But Catra will be damned if she lets Chasm get it, whatever _it_ is. 

She really can’t think of a crueler torture than what Chasm put her through. Forcing Catra to relive the moments she most regrets, to immerse herself in the loneliness and trauma that suffocated her for years.

It’s unforgivable. And despite how relieved she is to discover that she won’t have to relive her whole life, Catra’s claws itch to wreak revenge. 

But she needs to find Adora first. 

Catra glances around, eyes sharp and searching for She-Ra’s golden glow, ears straining and twitching for the sound of Adora’s breathing. But there’s simply not much to search through or listen for. The landscape is largely empty—so gray, so barren. Utterly devoid of color, least of all She-Ra’s radiant magic.

And beyond the cold breeze that nips at Catra’s already chilled skin...there’s nothing to hear. No audible signs of life besides Catra’s own breathing and the deep thrumming of the frequency emitter.

It doesn’t make sense. If Catra came through the portal here, Adora should have too. And if Catra fell unconscious immediately, Adora should have done the same. 

Which means that Adora should still be here, curled up on the ground in the same way that Catra was. 

Unless something took her from this spot. 

Catra glances downward. And sure enough, beneath her feet, there are grooves and footprints in the dirt—like someone came and quite literally dragged a body across the ground. 

Catra supposes she should be grateful that the kidnapper left some kind of trail to follow. But then again...it’s hard for Catra to feel in any way grateful when her wife has quite literally been kidnapped.

Did Chasm do this? Did she take Adora? 

Catra shakes her head and takes a step forward. She supposes she will find out—

But then she freezes. There’s a rumbling noise—one that makes Catra’s ears twitch. Even stranger, it doesn’t seem to be coming from the sky, like thunder, or even from the ground, like an earthquake. 

Spinning around, Catra’s eyes widen as she sees and hears something _erupt_ midair. A small pocket of purple light crackles into existence, hissing tendrils of what appears to be electricity lashing out at nothing and everything. 

And then, just as abruptly, the light fizzles out and disappears. The tendrils swallowed, the pocket imploding into nothingness. 

Catra stares, frozen, as the smell of ozone fades from her nostrils.

A portal. Someone is trying to open a portal. 

Entrapta. 

Tears prick at the edges of Catra’s vision. Their friends haven’t abandoned them, after all. They’re still trying. Still trying to reopen the portal—still trying to rescue Catra and Adora from this desolate place. 

And knowing Entrapta, it’ll be only a matter of time before she succeeds.

Catra sets her jaw. If they’re going to get home, she needs to find Adora as soon as possible. 

She leaves the frequency emitter in the dirt behind her, knowing that it will continue to transmit those deep, unnatural noises. It will lead her back to this spot. To her friends. To her future. 

* * *

“Alert,” blares Darla amidst alarms. “We are being pulled in by an outside force.”

Adora grits her teeth and rises from her chair, a mixture of excitement and dread swirling in her stomach. Beyond the window, she sees Horde Prime’s ship looming closer and closer as Darla is dragged forward by some sort of tractor beam. 

The landing bay eventually swallows the ship, and Adora feels a short jolt as they’re released from the tractor beam onto the metal ground. 

Adora positions herself at the edge of the docking ramp, her arms raised above her head in a gesture of surrender. When Darla’s hatch doors slide open, a group of Horde Prime’s clones is waiting for her—staring at her expectantly.

Adora gulps, then descends the ramp—keeping her hands raised. The clones are quick to grab her as soon as she’s within reach, roughly pinning both arms behind her back while two other clones climb past her, up the ramp. They proceed to search the ship. 

“You won’t find anything,” Adora tells them, struggling to maintain an air of confidence despite the nervousness that threatens to break her voice into pieces. “I came alone. I heard Horde Prime’s been looking for me. Figured it was time we met.” 

Somewhere behind her, she hears the clones stop their rummaging. Evidently, they’ve found nothing. 

“Yes,” the clone directly before Adora agrees—smiling with unsettling politeness. “You will be brought before Horde Prime.”

Adora feels the grip on her wrists release. 

“And there you will receive your judgment.”

The clones shove her forward, urging her to walk. She obliges without complaint, though internally, she’s screaming with relief. 

It worked. Everything is repeating as it should be. 

So maybe Catra never called. Maybe they didn't rescue Glimmer when she expected to. But that doesn’t mean that Adora can’t still rescue them both now, by using the same plan that allowed her to rescue Catra that first time. 

Bow will find Glimmer and free her from wherever she’s being held. Entrapta will locate the server room and damage it as necessary. 

And Adora…

Adora will fight Catra. Just like last time. 

_“We’re in_ ,” Bow’s voice crackles in her ear, emanating from the tiny speaker in her earpiece. Bow and Entrapta must have just detached from the side of Darla’s hull. _“They didn’t find us_.” 

“Good,” Adora whispers beneath her breath. “Be quick. And don’t get caught.”

She can still salvage this, she tells herself. Adora can still fight her way back to her future. 

* * *

Catra walks for so long, her feet begin to hurt. 

Her first mistake was entering an interdimensional portal without first putting on shoes. It only figures that this strange, gray plane between worlds is dusted with jagged rocks that cut into Catra’s bare toes. 

But those rocks also make Adora’s path clear to follow, so Catra supposes she shouldn’t complain. 

Though she tries not to think about how cut up Adora must be, if she was dragged through a ground like this. She only hopes that She-Ra will be able to heal herself. 

(And maybe Catra’s feet too, so that the journey back isn’t quite so agonizing). 

The trail continues endlessly. With the wind ceaselessly slicing into her skin and the uniformity of the landscape depressing her mood, Catra begins to think that she’s trapped in another illusion—one that will keep her stuck here, following this single line in the dirt for all eternity. Hoping, fruitlessly, to find Adora even though there’s nothing to find. 

But then Catra spots... _something_ on the horizon line. It’s only a distant speck, at first. But as she hobbles closer, she realizes that it is a truly enormous boulder—one larger than a house, though several shades smaller than the giant library that Bow’s dads keep in the Whispering Woods. 

More details reveal themselves with every step closer. There are structures carved into the face of the rock. Archways. Pillars and columns. 

It’s a building of some sort. Cut directly from the rock, with a gaping mouth of an entrance at its front. 

She comes to stand directly beside this strange structure of rock and carved architecture, craning her neck to get a better look. Now that she’s closer, she thinks she sees…are those _designs_ carved into the walls? 

No, Catra realizes, brushing a hand along one of the symbols carved closest to the ground. Not designs. Symbols. A collection of random words scrawled across the boulder’s face over and over again, none of which she recognizes, their appearance is so foreign. But somehow… 

Somehow she understands them. Every time she looks at one of those symbols, it’s as though a voice is whispering their meaning into her ear.

_Danger. Dark Magic. Fear. Warning. Chasm._

_Chasm_ , Catra thinks, satisfied. If this place warns of Chasm’s presence, then it’s probably where Catra needs to be. 

She extends her claws, prepared for a fight. Prepared for revenge. 

And so, fearless with fury, Catra turns and sends herself directly through that arching maw of an entrance. 

As she steps inside, the first thing Catra notices is the lanterns. They adorn the walls, hang down from the ceiling. Each of them, a droplet-shaped container of glass filled with warm, golden light. 

Catra taps at one of them with a nail, trying to determine how, exactly, they remain lit. There doesn’t seem to be any fuel source. And without any apparent wiring, she doubts they run off electricity. 

Magic, Catra realizes. They’re running off magic. 

The lamps bathe the hallway in an eerie half-light as Catra continues to walk forward. There appears to be a room at the end of this path—one much brighter than the passage where Catra currently stands. 

Catra presses herself against the wall and scoots down the hallway, wanting to take Chasm by surprise, if possible. When she’s standing directly beside the threshold, she peeks her head out from the doorway, briefly surveying the room before her. 

Her eyes immediately latch on a glowing _something_ at the center of the room. A pair of long legs. A mass of golden hair. All of it sprawled carelessly on the floor, attached to a body and a face that appear fast asleep.

And that face...Catra would know that face anywhere. At the start of a life, at the end of the world, or in a place between dimensions. 

She-Ra. 

Adora. 

The sight of her fills Catra with immense relief. It’s all she can do not to rush forward and throw both arms around her. 

But she needs to be careful. Something—Chasm, most likely—brought Adora here, and Catra needs to be ready for a fight.

Her eyes sweep the room once more. But strangely enough, she finds...no one. No one else. Just a wide cavern-like room filled with lanterns and what appear to be...scrolls? Yes, Catra thinks. Scrolls and books and tapestries loaded onto roughly carved bookshelves. Bookshelves that also appear to be hewn from the rock. 

It reminds Catra even more of George and Lance’s library. 

Luckily or unluckily, Chasm is nowhere in sight. Not at the moment, anyway. And Catra figures that she should try to get Adora to safety while she has the opportunity.

She steps forward, into the room. Into the full light, her feet grateful to step over smooth stone rather than rough gravel. 

That’s what she thinks, at least, until something swoops down from the ceiling and presses something sharp and _hot_ into the side of Catra’s neck. She has no choice but to freeze, to stop in her tracks. 

A weapon. A threat. Hovering there, but not plunging deeper. Not drawing blood—yet. 

“Move no further, Force Captain,” a woman’s voice warns, “or I will be forced to take lethal action.”

_Force Captain?_ Catra thinks in utter confusion. She’s no longer in Chasm’s illusion. Which means that she hasn’t held the title of Force Captain in years. Not since she had that fight with Hordak, and was immediately taken aboard Horde Prime’s ship—

A hand lands on Catra’s shoulder and roughly yanks her around, the weapon remaining pressed into Catra’s throat all the while. 

She finds herself face-to-face with light purple skin and long, gleaming strands of pink hair. The face that leans close to hers is furious, the eyebrows arched into an expression of suspicion. And there, beyond the face, is a pair of enormous, semi-transparent wings. 

Catra has seen this person before. Briefly, on a war front, during the Battle of Bright Moon. And then much later, carved onto so many paintings and statues throughout Bright Moon’s palace. 

Queen Angella. 

* * *

“You will go alone,” a clone tells Adora. 

A green door has just evaporated before her, revealing the long, dark platform that has haunted Adora’s dreams for weeks. 

It’s just as she imagined it, in her dreams. The blinking green lights. The dais ahead of her. The curved, almost skeletal architecture. 

And the abyss below her feet. Her shadow seems to cut holes through the floor, it is so long, so dark. 

She shouldn’t be nervous as she walks forward. She’s lived this day before—survived it. She knows how the story ends. And yet…

Anxiety blazes through her like a physical flame. Droplets of sweat gather beneath her collar, on her forehead. More than anything, she just wants this moment to be over. She wants to be back on the ship, with Catra. Where they can finally be together without questions or risks to the timeline—

She climbs the stairs to the dais. This time, as she climbs, the throne is far from empty. Horde Prime lounges in his seat, plugged into his sickening collection of green tubes and flanked by blank-eyed clones on both sides. 

“Prime,” she greets, not-at-all politely. 

Horde Prime’s eyes open one by one. 

“Welcome, Adora.”

* * *

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t run you through,” Angella grits out, pressing her weapon even closer to Catra’s jugular. 

It’s She-Ra’s sword, Catra realizes with a start. There—in Angella’s hand. A sword that glows with shimmering magic, just like Adora does. Between the white-hot magic it produces and its deadly sharp blade, it could easily slice through Catra’s neck. 

Shit. Of course, Angella is reacting to Catra’s presence like this. The last time she saw Catra, Catra was laying waste to her kingdom. Angella doesn’t know what has happened in the many years since then. The way Catra and so many others turned their backs on the Horde—

“Why are you here?” Angella demands. 

Catra doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she swallows—at a loss for how to begin. She’s spent years wishing for an opportunity to apologize to Angella. Even when Entrapta first mentioned her portal breakthrough, Catra spent several hours rehearsing apologies in the mirror, knowing that she would face Angella and have to make them eventually. 

But now, all that practice and thought and careful planning evacuate Catra’s mind. Instead, Catra’s eyes find every damaged, exhausted part of Angella’s face and body. The torn clothes hanging loosely around her painfully thin frame. The wilted wings. The bruise-like circles beneath her eyes. 

_My_ _fault_ , Catra thinks numbly, her mind filled with images of the lever in Hordak’s sanctum, and the blinding light of the ensuing disaster. _All my fault_. 

Catra trapped Angella here. Catra is responsible for this—for whatever Angella has suffered here. 

How, exactly, does someone say _I’m sorry_ for an act of cruelty this severe? 

Briefly, Angella’s eyes flit to Adora’s prone form, on the floor, and her gaze hardens even more. “Is she why you’re here? To kill her?” Angella’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I won’t let you do it. You were foolish to come here if that was your plan.”

Catra swallows again, shaking as she tries to compose herself. “Look, I’m not...I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

“Somehow, I find that difficult to believe,” says Angella, nearly chuckling with a dark sort of amusement. “I haven’t forgotten what happened. You were the one who opened the portal that sent me here—”

The sword shifts again, like Angella is reminding Catra not to lie—or she will face the consequences. 

“You’re right,” Catra says with a heaving breath, shutting her eyes. She pictures each word in her mind as she says them, they are so difficult to hold on to. “I did open the portal. I’m the one who did this to you. It was terrible. And unforgivable. And...”

A sob tears its way from Catra’s throat, violent and unexpected. She struggles to speak. Struggles to breathe. She knows that Angella has every right to do this—to kill her. But Catra doesn’t want to die here, and she especially doesn’t want to die with Adora still trapped in that dream world. 

She needs to face this. She needs to move forward from this guilt, and this is the only way how. 

Catra sniffs. Inhales. Exhales. Composes herself. 

“I am so, so sorry,” Catra whispers. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish that it was me, and not you. And it kills me—knowing that everything I have comes from a life that I took from you.”

Catra is hardly surprised when the tears begin running down her own cheeks. It feels equal parts agonizing and relieving to say those words, and it’s a strange sensation—to be so utterly crushed by guilt, but so oddly emptied of such enormous, weighty words. 

But Angella seems surprised, even if Catra does not. She stares at Catra with wide eyes, stunned by how genuine—and broken—the confession is. 

And then her gaze flits downward, latching onto something near Catra’s collarbone, and Angella’s eyes seem to widen even more. 

Catra glances down, wary of the sword, trying to determine what has rendered Angella so surprised. 

And then she realizes. 

Adora’s pin—a small, wing-shaped brooch of gold. It’s affixed to the front of her shirt, just as usual. It’s been there ever since Catra and Adora were engaged. She remembers Adora smiling on the day she first affixed it there. Some mornings, she still likes to be the one to pin it to Catra’s clothes. 

It’s an Etherian tradition for engaged couples to wear articles of each other’s clothing. It’s jewelry, more often than not. Though Catra didn’t own much of anything after leaving the Horde—least of all jewelry. So, when she isn’t turned into She-Ra, Adora wears a black fingerless glove on one hand—Catra’s contribution to the clothes exchange. Catra wears the other at all times. 

Angella’s eyes ricochet from the pin to Adora’s body, still asleep on the floor. And then Catra feels the pressure of the sword relent slightly.

Angella’s voice is small when she says. “How long, exactly, have I been gone?”

“...a while,” reveals Catra with a sigh. “Over five years.”

“And you wear Adora’s pin,” Angella says slowly. “Do you realize what that means?”

Catra scratches at the back of her neck. “Yeah. We’re kind of...married?”

The sword’s pressure returns. “Does that mean the rebellion lost?” Angella demands furiously. “Did Adora betray us for...for _you_?”

Catra shakes her head, careful to keep her neck largely still during the motion. “No. The war is over. The Horde is gone—defeated. And Etheria has entered a period of prolonged peace.”

Angella’s lips settle into a thin line. “Then why do you walk free?”

Catra sighs again. “People are too forgiving, I guess. And I guess I kinda had a hand in saving the world.”

A pause. And then Angella remarks, “And I imagine being married to She-Ra makes it difficult for people to complain of your presence.”

Catra smiles a little. “You’re probably right. But...that’s why I’m here.” She jerks her head in Adora’s direction. “To find her. She had a one-hour window to come and get you. When she didn’t come back out, I went in. There was a rope tied around her waist—to lead her back—but someone cut it—”

“Well, obviously,” says Angella dismissively. “I had to cut the rope. I had no choice.”

Catra gapes at her. “You...what?”

* * *

Adora clenches a fist at her side. 

“This is how it’s going to go. You’re going to give me Catra and Glimmer. And then you’re going to let me leave again, free and clear.”

She bluffs, just like the first time. Threatening to use the Heart of Etheria against Horde Prime and his empire. 

And just like the first time, he laughs her off. 

“You are not going to use the weapon,” Horde Prime says, voice still dancing with amusement, “or you would have already done so. You would never risk the safety of Queen Glimmer...or your Catra.”

“You don’t know me,” Adora snaps. “And you don’t know what I’m capable of.” 

“Oh...but I do,” Horde Prime half-growls. He stands, released from his tubes with the unsettling hiss of escaped pressure, and steps forward until he’s looming over her—cutting off her line of vision with his superior height and even more formidable shadow. 

_“Adora_ ,” Bow’s voice crackles over the earpiece. “ _I found Glimmer! I’m getting her to the ship now_.”

Glimmer. Glimmer, but not Catra.

That’s fine, Adora thinks. Well, not exactly _fine_ , but good enough. Good enough to get the future back on track at the very least, even if that fight—the one with Catra chipped—remains the last thing that Adora would ever want to relive. 

“It’s a shame, though,” Horde Prime says casually—almost gloatingly. “That you didn’t arrive earlier. You might have been able to save her, then. Your Catra."

Adora stares at him blankly for a few moments, trying but failing to process his words. 

“What...what do you mean?” Adora stammers. 

Horde Prime gives an exaggerated sigh. 

“It was clear from the very moment she arrived that she intended to betray me. Between the elevated heart rate, the changes in breathing patterns, the increased perspiration...it became quite apparent that she was lying to me. Lying, constantly.” Horde Prime’s eyes flash viciously at Adora. “And I am not an easy person to lie to.”

He tucks his hands behind his back and leans in closer to Adora, smiling broadly and cruelly. She can’t stand it. His proximity. That strange false pity in his eyes, the kind that she can’t make sense of—

“Though when I finally managed to torture the truth from her—” 

Adora cannot stifle the small noise of horror that escapes her mouth. Horde Prime hears it too, and he smiles all the wider.

“I only discovered just how... _delusional_ she was. It seemed she had convinced herself that she was from the future. A future where I was dead. And you...victorious over me.” 

Adora cannot speak. She can only hear Horde Prime’s words ricocheting in her mind. Two words, in particular. 

_She was._

Past tense.

But— _no_. He must be wrong. He must be. None of this, none of this can be right, they had a plan, Catra and Adora both—

He laughs heartily. “The talk of a madwoman, surely—all this nonsense about traveling from the future. So. Rather than entertain her delusions, I thought it would be more merciful to simply…” 

He sets his hand beneath Adora’s chin, digging the sharpest nail into the tender skin close to her throat. 

“...put Catra out of her misery.”

His nail scrapes along until it flicks out from under her chin. She can feel the blood that oozes from where he touched her, but she can’t react. She can’t even think. Her mind is completely overwhelmed by that simple, unspeakably terrible phrase...

_...put Catra out of her misery._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's best that y'all just...get used to cliffhanger chapter endings for now lol
> 
> and lastly, if you like my writing, there's some new content available for your reading pleasure:
> 
> 1\. a new [oneshot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201983) in this series that's an au of the episode "White Out'  
> 2\. I've also been responding some [prompts on my tumblr.](https://catra-adoras.tumblr.com/tagged/tidbits) Definitely check them out!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angella reads a book.
> 
> Catra (briefly) self-deprecates. 
> 
> And Adora gets violent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW for violence and blood.** I genuinely considered adding an archive warning for literally like...a couple sentences in this chapter, but I ultimately didn't think it was warranted because it's not _too_ graphic?? let me know if you disagree and I can make changes. 
> 
> Well...we're in double-digit chapters now. Only five chapters left. Wild! Thanks so much for all the continued support this fic has received, please continue commenting or drop a kudos if you haven't yet! It means everything to me, and with a fic as complicated as this one, that kind of feedback is really important. 
> 
> Also, if you're enjoying this fic, feel free to come talk to me about it on my [tumblr](https://catra-adoras.tumblr.com/)! I love talking about plotting, storytelling, catradora, whatever.

Unfortunately, it makes too much sense. Adora would have fallen unconscious upon entering the portal, just as Catra did. And if she dropped the sword while Angella was nearby…

Angella could have easily picked up the blade and cut through the rope. Sizzling, slicing, _burning_ through each coarse fiber. 

Leaving Catra with nothing to pull back into her world. 

“What do you mean, you cut Adora’s rope?” Catra demands, unable to keep the fury from entering her voice. “Why would you try to trap her here?” 

She knows that she has no right to be angry at Angella. Better yet, it’s just common sense to stay calm while a sword is pressed against her neck. But Catra can’t help it. She can’t help being angry. If that rope was never cut, she could have pulled Adora to safety within the first hour of the portal being open. Instead…

Instead, they had to relive the worst three years of their lives. And Adora is over there, on the floor. Unconscious. Still trapped in Chasm’s illusion. 

“I had no choice,” Angella says again. “If she was brought back through the portal like this, under Chasm’s influence...” Angella shakes her head, as though shaking off a terrible thought. “Chasm would be brought through as well. She spreads like a disease—I couldn’t risk it. So I brought Adora here instead. In the hope that she would wake up—”

Catra shifts her neck away from the sword, her eyes once again finding Adora on the nearby ground. “Let me go to her. Maybe I can get through—”

Angella’s stare is suspicious and unyielding. She doesn’t remove the sword. 

Catra rolls her eyes. “I promise I’m not going to hurt her. Or you. Not anymore. In fact—” She gestures to Adora somewhat frantically. “I came all this way to rescue her so she could rescue you. Now would you _please_ let me go?” 

A moment passes in which Angella doesn’t move. But then, finally, with one last look at the golden pin on Catra’s shirt, she drops the sword to her side. 

Briefly, Catra rubs the now-free skin around her throat—massaging away the prickling burn of the sword’s edge. And then, with Angella watching her warily, she turns and sprints to Adora, falling to the ground beside her with a small, strangled noise of relief. 

Catra’s eyes find Adora largely intact, thankfully. Not covered in cuts and bruises from being dragged across the ground, as she feared. Adora’s teeth grind in her sleep, her eyelids fluttering almost frantically. But otherwise, she seems perfectly healthy. Glowing faint gold and shimmering with magic, as usual. 

Though there’s...there’s _something_ there. A symbol of some sort, glowing atop Adora’s forehead. Formed by the thinnest possible lines of red—almost like scratches by appearance, but hovering slightly above the skin. 

It’s a strange symbol. A spiral with a small red circle at its center. Catra brushes her fingers over it, as though trying to scrub it away. 

“That won’t work,” Angella says, watching Catra’s efforts with a degree of pity. “It’s a mark of the spell that Chasm cast upon her. It won’t disappear until she wakes.” 

Fine, Catra thinks. She’ll just wake Adora up, then. 

Catra grabs both of Adora’s shoulders and shakes them frantically. 

“Adora!” she calls loudly. “Adora, wake up!”

Adora doesn’t react in the least. 

Angella snorts. “Do you really think I haven’t tried that?”

Catra shoots Angella an indignant glare, then resumes her efforts to force Adora awake. She scoots closer and pulls Adora’s head into her lap, the pads of her fingers tracing lightly over Adora’s cheeks. 

“Adora,” Catra whispers. “Come on, baby. I need you to wake up. We need to go home.” 

Again, Adora doesn’t stir. 

She clutches Adora’s face with both hands now. “I love you, Adora. So _please_. Wake up.”

Catra waits for an answer but...nothing. Adora remains determinedly asleep. 

Catra grunts in frustration. So even the declaration of love didn’t work? In most screwy magical situations, that proved a surefire solution. But not this time. This time, Adora slept right through it. 

Well, Catra thinks. She supposes it’s time for the nuclear option. 

She leans down and brushes her lips against Adora’s, trying not to feel too uncomfortable with Angella watching them. Her lips hold there for a moment, waiting for Adora to return the kiss as she usually does, but she doesn’t. Adora’s mouth remains fastened shut, her teeth grinding all the while. 

Alright, they might be in serious trouble if _true love’s kiss_ didn’t work. That’s gotten them out of all sorts of ridiculous magical situations in the past. 

Catra gives a defeated sigh and straightens. Her eyes watch helplessly as Adora continues to dream—and refuses to wake. There’s little else Catra can think to do. 

Beneath Adora is some sort of frayed tapestry—woven from thick, durable fibers. Not soft, exactly, but thick enough to keep Adora from feeling the bite of the cold floor. And though there’s not much on the top of the fabric, the bottom and edges of the tapestry are caked in soil and small stones. 

“Did you drag her here on this?” Catra asks Angella, flicking one of the stones from the tapestry’s frayed edge. 

Angella nods. “I would have flown her here, but...she’s just so tall as She-Ra. So heavy.” Her hands slide up her too-thin arms, coming to clutch at the bony elbows. “I just wasn’t strong enough. I had to pull her here instead, dragging her bit by bit.”

Catra swallows as she imagines Angella struggling to tug Adora through the dirt on that tapestry. It wasn’t fair to her—to Angella. It’s Catra’s job to protect Adora. Knowing that Angella worked so hard to keep her safe…

It’s another debt that Catra can’t repay. 

Wanting to change the subject, Catra asks. “Why here?” 

Angella gestures to the glowing lanterns. “It’s the closest thing to a real building in this entire…” She flaps a hand. “...whatever this is. At the very least, it’s warmer in here than it is out there. And it’s supposed to be warded against her. Against Chasm.”

Angella tentatively steps closer until, finally, she’s sitting across from Catra on the ground, staring over Adora’s sleeping body. 

“Not that it will help her now, with Chasm already infecting her,” Angella sighs. She lays a hand over Adora’s forehead—as though checking her temperature. The red symbol is covered beneath Angella’s palm. 

“What is this?” Catra demands furiously. “What did Chasm do to her? To both of us? And why did I wake up while she...”

Catra stares at Adora’s face—her features still pinched as though suffering some inescapable nightmare—and allows the sentence to trail away. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Angella asks grimly. “She trapped you in an illusion. She does the same to anyone who enters this place.” 

Catra shoots her a stunned sideways glance. “Even you?”

Angella nods. “Though I’ve been free of her for some time. Her illusions...they aren’t perfect. I was able to wake from mine after several days.”

“What did she make you see?” Catra asks, almost frightened to know the answer. 

“The worst years of the war, when the original princess alliance fell apart,” Angella says. An eyebrow raises in curiosity. “You?”

“We both went back to the day Adora found the sword,” Catra says. “Adora and I. She trapped us together. And then we had to relive every moment after. Reliving every mistake I made, the hurt I caused…”

Catra trails off, tears blooming in her eyes. She wipes at them with the crook of her elbow. 

“And what is this place, anyway?” Catra continues, glancing at the full bookshelves all around them. “I doubt you’ve spent the last several years perfecting your book-binding skills. Or your bookshelf-building skills, for that matter.”

Angella sighs. “I might not have bound these books, but I’ve spent many years reading them. This place is a warning. A repository of information about her—about Chasm—so that if anyone ever traveled here, they’d know what awaits them.”

“So those symbols on the outside…”

“Written warnings,” Angella finishes for her. “Enchanted, so that anyone can understand their meaning, no matter what language they speak.”

“A warning,” Catra repeats. “A warning against what? What is she? Who is Chasm, and what does she want with us?”

With another deep sigh, Angella stands and walks to one of the shelves, pulling a book from a spot that she seems to have memorized. Even from a short distance away, Catra can see how worn the book is—the cover fraying, the pages dog-eared in many places. Evidently, Angella has spent a lot of time reading it.

Book in hand, Angella settles back onto the ground beside Adora, and splits open the pages open in her lap. 

“The books are also enchanted. The ancient magicians who built this place...they clearly wanted people to be well-warned of the terrible danger Chasm poses. Though I think they most hoped that no one would travel this plane at all. ”

“And what is she, exactly?” Catra asks. “Chasm?”

“An ancient being of some sort,” Angella says, lifting the book for Catra to see. “Much like She-Ra, in the sense of being an incorporeal magical entity.”

There are illustrations. Gruesome ones. 

She sees a hulking red figure—Chasm—crouched over an entire village of people, as though trapping them within the red fabric of her cloak. Her lips are twisted into a wicked, sharp-toothed smile that Catra recognizes from her short conversation with Chasm, back in that dream world. 

“But while She-Ra is a being of purer magics—formed of love and will and hope—Chasm was known to be an entity of the darkest magics ever conceived. She used to travel the universe, terrorizing whole planets—filling people’s minds with nightmares so terrible, they often craved death as an alternative.”

“Sounds lovely,” Catra remarks sarcastically. “Any particular reason why?”

“She would feed off it, apparently. Misery. Fear. Rage. Those are the things that have always powered dark magic.” 

Catra pauses for a second. She doesn’t like the sound of that. Being used—fed off. Especially when Catra and Adora probably produced quite a bit of misery during their time trapped in the not-actually-past. 

“So that’s what she did to us?” Catra says, in a small voice. “She trapped us in that dream so she could _feed_ off us?” Her eyes widen in terror as they again fall onto Adora. “And is that what she’s doing to Adora right now?”

Angella hums and turns the page. “More or less, yes. You see, after Chasm spent millennia tormenting planet upon planet, a group of powerful magicians banded together to trap her here—in this place between worlds. It was the only suitable prison they could think of.”

“Well, yeah,” says Catra. “It’s not exactly easy to get here—or get out. Our friends are still struggling to keep a portal open.”

“It was also devoid of life,” Angella emphasizes. “That was their biggest concern. If she had no minds to torment, her power would be greatly limited. She wouldn’t be able to carve an escape for herself—not even using magic. Not unless someone gave her the means.” 

Catra gulps. “But won’t opening a portal give her the means to escape? Wouldn’t it be our fault—?”

“The portal itself is not the problem,” Angella says evenly. “Giving Chasm an opportunity to escape is a bit more complicated than that. There are different levels to existence. Magic. Light. Dreams. Countless more. Portals, on the other hand, are openings through physical locations—meaning that only physical creatures can pass through them.”

“Physical creatures…” Catra repeats. “Like you and me and Adora?”

Angella nods. “But Chasm has no physical form. She’s a magical entity—just as She-Ra is. She latches herself to a host to truly exist on the physical plane, rather than just influence people’s minds using her magic. And without a host—someone to walk her through that portal—she won’t be able to go anywhere.”

Catra blinks, confused. “So how did they get her here in the first place?”

“I believe they transported her last host here,” says Angella, “and Chasm traveled along with them.” 

Angella turns a few more pages, revealing an image of what appears to be a curled-up human body, lying prone upon the ground. Above it is another hulking depiction of Chasm. But this time she seems less frightful, somehow. Smaller. Weaker. 

And that’s when Catra sees it—the spiral drawn upon the person’s forehead. The same spiral currently glowing upon Adora’s forehead. 

Catra is too frightened to think of what it means. Luckily, she doesn’t have much time to think—not while Angella keeps explaining. 

“They thought that once her host died of starvation or old age, Chasm would be left here, trapped, without a shred of fear or misery to feed upon. Over time, she was left powerless.”

“Well,” Catra begins, “for a mystical entity left powerless from years without misery to feed on, she seemed plenty powerful to me. I only escaped her because I realized that something was off. Inconsistencies in my memories—”

“The same happened to me,” Angella reveals. “And like you, I was able to cast Chasm out of my head once I realized what was happening. But you need to understand, Catra—if Chasm was at full power, no person would be able to do that. She’d be able to hold onto you no matter how much you wished her gone.” 

“I don’t understand,” says Catra. “How is she able to do magic at all? Shouldn’t she still be powerless after so many years without people around to feed her?”

Angella sighs enormously. 

“I believe that’s my fault,” Angella admits. “Dark magic...it’s parasitic by nature. It can feed on _other_ forms of magic as well. You saw this, I believe, with how Shadow Weaver was able to draw magic with my daughter. I fear that when I came here, Chasm was able to draw on both my misery and what little remained of my magic from the Moonstone. It powered the illusions she gave me—and the ones she gave you.”

Catra falls silent in contemplation. If Chasm was able to feed off the traces of the Moonstone’s magic contained within Angella...

What would Chasm do with all the magic once stored at the Heart of Etheria?

“Great,” Catra grunts, glancing down at Adora with even more alarm, “and now she has a walking, talking magical battery to feed off—one who’s _also_ reliving the most miserable moments of her life.”

Angella nods solemnly. “The longer Adora is here, the more dangerous and powerful Chasm becomes. Chasm will have twice as much power to feed on. Adora needs to wake up. We won’t be able to transport her home until she does. Especially if…”

Angella trails off. Catra doesn’t like it. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Especially if what?” Catra asks suspiciously. 

“Especially if Chasm is seeking a new host,” Angella replies. “It’s bad enough that if we brought Adora through the portal right now, we’d likely carry Chasm with us. But Chasm is looking for _more_ than just a way out of this place. In fact, I doubt she has much interest in sleeping bodies, however much they might feed her." Angella again looks down, at the book beneath her. "No. Chasm won't settle for less than complete control.” 

She turns several pages back. And that's where Catra sees it—a drawing of a person. They're tumbling into some sort of abyss and there, poised at the bottom, is Chasm—her mouth opened wide and prepared to devour. 

And again, that same spiral symbol is carved into the person’s forehead. 

* * *

Catra. Catra, who snorts when she laughs. Who purrs whenever Adora brushes her hands along her skin. Who kisses Adora so hard that they both forget how to breathe. 

Catra, who Adora loves. Catra, who loves Adora back. 

Catra….

Who has been _put out of her misery_.

No.

_No_. It just...it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t compute. It can’t be true, Adora can’t let it be true, anything but that—

“You...you’re lying!” Adora shrieks. Her arms shake. Her hands curl even more tightly into fists, her nails cutting crescents into her palms. She widens her stance, prepared to fight Horde Prime—to fling punches at him, or maybe at the words he says, they are so cruel and threatening. But he doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t strike out at her. Why would he need to, if he’s already dealt Adora a death blow?

Horde Prime only releases another cruel laugh. “What reason would I have to lie?”

“No!” Adora yells. “No, no, no! You—you’re trying to trick me! But it’s _not_ going to work. It’s not. I know she’s here. I know you’ve chipped her!”

Adora spins around, eyes raking over the space beyond the stairs—over the platform. Hoping, frantically, to see Catra emerging from the darkness, just like the first time. Even to see her chipped—those emotionless green eyes glowing eerily—would be a relief compared to _this_ , this horrendous lie, this swirling, nauseating torrent of dread in Adora’s gut. 

“Catra!” she calls, hoping for an answer. A glimpse. Anything, any proof at all that Catra is still alive, and not…

Not _that_. Not what he says. 

But there’s nothing. No one. Just a group of clones guarding her exit. Just darkness. 

There is only this. Blinking green lights. A bone-white dais. Horde Prime, smirking down at her with unmistakable glee. 

Adora is alone. And there can be nothing worse than this, the prospect of being alone here, in the past. Robbed of the future that she’s given nearly everything to reclaim. 

“She hoped you would come for her, poor thing,” Horde Prime says, feigning pity. “But sadly...you were far too late for her.”

Her whole body trembles. She won’t do it. She won’t consider it, won’t even picture it—

But despite herself… she does. She imagines Catra, alone, crying out for Adora as Horde Prime tortures her to death. Tears of despair streaming down her cheeks as she realizes that it was all for nothing, that they’d never reach the future they worked so hard to achieve—that they suffered through _two whole lifetimes_ of misery only to lose it all in the final stretch.

Adora is too stunned to sob. The tears are an afterthought, almost. She hardly feels them sliding down to her chin—a strange contradiction of temperature. Her cheeks heated in her anguish. Her tears chilled from her fear. 

She can only shake. She can only stare at nothing and everything as shallow, aching gasps are sliced from her lungs. Her thoughts are scattered, babbling. Bursts of denial smothered by blankets of devastating grief. 

She can’t reconcile them. She _can’t_ reconcile them. These two Catras. The Catra who Adora was supposed to be with. Who Adora was supposed to love— _cherish and protect_ —for the rest of her life.

And this Catra. This Catra who is gone, _destroyed_ , sent beyond Adora’s reach forever, and for always. Dooming Adora to a hollow future of _could-have-beens_ and _if onlys_ , of endless separation and loneliness and _pain_...

And then, suddenly, there is nothing. Her mind goes blank. Her thoughts fall silent. 

Instead, she finds herself filled to bursting with one thing, and one thing only. 

Rage. 

Adora flings up her hand. 

And a sword flashes into her open fist. 

* * *

“Possession is no easy task,” Angella explains. “Not even for magical entities. What Chasm is doing right to Adora right now—it’s not full possession. It’s a parasitic attachment; a very vivid, very intricate illusion. One designed to keep the victim trapped forever. But…” Angella reaches over and again cups her hand over Adora’s forehead. “It _can_ be a gateway to possession. Remember what I mentioned about her victims craving death as an alternative to the nightmares?”

Angella looks up Catra with a look of pure sadness. Catra nods slowly. 

“That’s how she gains control. From within her visions, she convinces her victims that they’ve perished—and makes them feel relieved to have done so. Without their consciousness fighting her for control, she gains complete command of their bodies.” 

Something cold and immeasurably heavy plunges into Catra’s stomach. She remembers her conversation with Chasm. How unconcerned she seemed to lose control of Catra, so long as she maintained her hold of Adora.

_“But in the end, I only need to keep one of you_ ,” Chasm said. “ _And you, Catra, weren’t the one I was rooting for.”_

Catra shakes her head with a desperate sort of denial. “That’s ridiculous. Adora is already the host for one magical entity or whatever. She can’t be the host of _two—_ ”

But Angella’s darkened expression silences Catra’s protests. “Why not? It doesn’t make any difference to Chasm. If anything, she’d be more than happy to have She-Ra’s power to add to her own.”

“Because…because…” Catra stammers, clutching even more tightly to the sides of Adora’s face. “It’s just not fair! She-Ra has already taken so much from her. She’s filled to the brim with uber-powerful magical entities, she doesn’t need more—”

“Yes,” Angella says. “She-Ra chose Adora, and Adora accepted She-Ra in turn. But Chasm possesses through manipulation, without permission. She already has great power over the mind—I imagine that she’d enjoy having immense physical power at her disposal as well. She-Ra’s power, through Adora.”

Catra can’t speak. Can’t argue. She can only clutch tightly at Adora’s face and shoulders, as though the pressure of her grip might somehow rouse her from Chasm’s lies. 

“So let me get this straight,” Catra says, scrunching her eyes shut. She wants to rub at her temples—to massage away the stress headache forming there—but she can’t stand the thought of releasing her hold of Adora. 

“Chasm is some sort of...magical parasite feeding off my wife’s magic and misery by using illusions of our past?” 

Catra allows her eyes to slide open slowly, almost fearfully—like she doesn’t even want her words confirmed. But it’s too late. She sees Angella nodding and knows that it must be true. 

“And until Adora realizes this and wakes up, we won’t be able to bring Adora home because we’ll bring Chasm along for the ride?”

Angella nods again. 

“And every second that she _doesn’t_ wake...the greater the chance that we won’t be able to get Chasm out of her head. Because Adora’s magic and misery is feeding her, making her more powerful even as we speak.”

Another solemn nod. 

“And worse…” Catra says, swallowing. Her voice, shaking. “If Chasm manages to convince Adora that she’s dead, or _should_ be dead, in the illusion…”

“Adora’s mind really will perish,” Angella says quietly, nearly whispering. “And Chasm will be all that’s left in her place.”

Catra releases a sound. It’s incoherent, unintelligible. A senseless cry of fear and anger and _helplessness_. She moves so that Adora’s body is fully cradled in her arms—and it’s not exactly easy, with She-Ra so much taller than Catra. But it’s nice, at least, to pretend that Adora is somehow more protected here, in Catra’s embrace. 

“We can’t give up hope,” Angella says. “We both escaped Chasm’s illusion. Adora will too.”

Catra’s gaze snaps up in wide-eyed panic. She shakes her head, shutting her eyes once more. 

“We both know Adora,” Catra says frantically. “She always focuses on the mission, not the details. If she’s got a world to save, everything else becomes noise. She wouldn’t even notice if her own pants were on fire—”

“Catra—”

But Catra can’t stop. She can’t stop panicking. “That’s what Chasm’s probably doing right now,” she says. “She’s probably making Adora relive the fight with Prime—”

Angella’s shoots her a confused look. “Prime? Who is that?”

Right. Angella wasn’t around for Horde Prime’s invasion. And she knows she should explain but...she just can’t. Not right now. Not while Adora will have to relive the very memories that Catra has the luxury of simply recalling. 

“What if Chasm kills her?” Catra asks, and her voice sounds smaller than she’s ever heard it. “What if she kills Adora and takes control?”

“Listen to me,” Angella says. “You said it yourself—we both know Adora. And we both know that she never gives up. Chasm will never convince her to let go.”

“So I’ll just have to accept that she’s gonna be in this…this...” Catra gestures frantically at Adora’s sleeping features. “... _coma_ forever?”

Angella shakes her head. “No. Even if she doesn’t wake, the portal can save us. You and I can go through and find Castaspella, bring her back here, and she might be able to cure Adora somehow—”

Well, Catra would actually find Micah before Castaspella, seeing as he’s the better sorcerer...but she doesn’t exactly know how to mention that Angella’s husband made a miraculous reappearance shortly after her apparent “death.”

Adora’s eyes continue to writhe beneath her eyelids. Catra hears Adora make a small noise of her own—a tiny cry of anguish, escaping past barely parted lips. Catra can only imagine what she’s seeing right now, in Chasm’s illusion. What has changed now that Catra is gone? Has Chasm replaced Catra with an illusion?

The thought is sickening. The idea of someone else pretending to be her, touching Adora, kissing her...especially when it’s Chasm beneath the surface. 

But then she remembers what Chasm said, right before Catra cast her out. 

_“I don’t need you to finish Adora’s story. In fact…I think it’d be better off without you entirely._ ” 

_Without you entirely_.

What if…what if Chasm hasn’t replaced Catra at all? 

What if Chasm has convinced Adora that Catra is dead? 

* * *

It’s a blur. 

A blur of magic and blood and cries of pain. 

The clones scream as her sword drives into them, dicing them into pieces. It’s the only relief she has—the thundercrack of broken bones, the slippery wetness of that green blood. 

Her face is coated with blood and tears, but she pays it no mind. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except this—Horde Prime, directly in front of her. Unprotected. Defenseless. 

_Monster._

A hang flings out and twists into his robe, yanking him close until his throat rests against the tip of her sword. 

"The body,” Adora grits out. “Where—is—her—body?” 

She has this absurd idea. A dream, really. That if she can find Catra’s body—however broken, however mangled—she can heal it. Restore it to life using her magic. 

Adora has never tried to resurrect the dead—only those close to it. But now, she can’t think of a better reason to try. She can still do this. She can still save Catra, save their future—

But despite the weapon burrowing into his neck, Horde Prime only releases another laugh. “We incinerated it,” he tells her slowly, deliberately. Relishing in each hideous word. “Do you really think we keep waste aboard this ship?”

_Incinerated_. _Waste_. 

Adora doesn’t ask further questions. The sword dives forward until it’s embedded within him, impaling the hollow of his throat. But it’s not enough. It’s not enough to simply end him. 

The hilt begins to turn within her grasp, rotating the blade through his unnatural cloned muscles and flesh. Swiveling it over and over and _over_ until it’s cleaved through. The head falls to the floor with a wet thump that Adora barely hears. 

She knows that she hasn’t won. That he isn’t gone. He’ll simply occupy another clone. And she won’t have the power to destroy him, truly destroy him, until the Heart of Etheria’s magic is released—

“Adora!” 

Adora turns to see Bow at the other end of the platform. He’s staring at her strangely—almost like he doesn’t recognize her at all. 

His eyes flicker to the broken bodies on the floor before returning her face. It’s only then that his eyes soften. Certainly, he notices the streaks of tears that line her cheeks. The miserable twisting of her features.

Something in Adora is truly broken, and the whole universe can see it. 

“We need to go!” Bow cries. “A whole army of clones and ships is on its way here. I already loaded Glimmer onto the ship, we’re wasting time—”

For a moment, she does nothing. The words of Bow’s warnings are incomprehensible to her. She hears only the lack of Catra’s breathing, the echoes of her failure. 

When Bow gestures for her to follow him—follow him _now_ or they’ll never make it—Adora nods silently and staggers forward, her sword tip trailing on the ground with an eerie screech and the wet trickle of blood hitting the floor. 

* * *

Catra thinks about it—what it would mean if Chasm convinced Adora that Catra was dead. 

For a moment, it’s easy to dismiss such a risk. She claims to herself that her death wouldn’t mean or affect much. That Catra’s existence has never held much importance. Not compared to Adora’s grand destiny as She-Ra, anyway. 

But then she thinks about it—thinks deeply. What if Adora never rescued Catra from Horde Prime? What if Adora failed to save her? 

Catra can self-deprecate all she likes, but it won’t change the truth. That Adora would be heartbroken—devastated. She’d never forgive herself for that failure. She’d spend the rest of her life wishing that she had acted differently, that she could’ve given her life in place of Catra’s.

And worse...she thinks about what would change, if Catra didn’t survive. Obviously, their peaceful future together would be a no-go. But even before that—

Without Catra, who will follow Adora into the Heart of Etheria? 

Who will convince her to turn into She-Ra when she most needs to?

Who will encourage Adora to survive, _to live_ , when Horde Prime’s virus nearly stills her heartbeat?

No one. No one at all. 

Without Catra, Adora won’t be able to deliver the failsafe as She-Ra. Or at least, Chasm will convince her that she won’t be able to. And then the magic at the Heart of Etheria will incinerate her, _kill her—_

And if Catra’s gone…if Adora thinks that Catra is dead, and that their future is unrecoverable...maybe Adora won’t even mind. Maybe she’ll be content to save the world, and not herself. 

That’s the worst part. The worst thought to have. That Adora would even consider...that she’d even accept—

But Catra knows. She _knows_. They’ve always been at odds in this, Catra and Adora. Adora has always been too willing to give her life to save the world. And with Catra unable to stop her...

Adora doesn’t give up—that much is true. She’d die before letting Horde Prime win. 

And that’s exactly the problem. 

Catra’s arms tighten protectively around Adora’s back. Her eyes feel stretched and aching, they’ve grown so wide with fear. 

“I need to go back,” Catra whispers—to herself more than anyone, she is so locked in a spiral of terrifying, grief-stricken thoughts. 

Angella squints at her. “What?”

“I need to go back!” Catra insists, louder now. A demand. A cry for help. 

“Go back where?” Angella asks. “I don’t understand—”

“Into the illusion—Chasm’s illusion! I need to go back in and find Adora, convince her that I’m alright, that none of it is real—”

“Catra…” Angella says softly—her voice almost pitying. “You can’t go back. Even if it were possible, you’ll only make Chasm more powerful—”

Catra shakes her head so vigorously that she nearly pulls a muscle.

“Don’t you get it?” Catra demands. “Adora _never_ gives up. She fights until the very end—” A tear squeezes its way from Catra’s eyes, dripping down onto Adora’s sleeping face below her. 

Adora doesn’t react to the splash of cool water on her cheek. She simply remains trapped—fast asleep in Catra’s arms, but far beyond her reach. 

“But that’s how Chasm is going to win,” Catra says. “She’s going to trick Adora into sacrificing herself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say it with me, kids: selflessness to the point of self-destruction is bad. And if you let yourself walk down that road, an evil magical entity WILL try to manipulate you. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.
> 
> Also, **@jigendraws** made some incredible art for this chapter! Make sure to check out their [tumblr](https://jigendraws.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/jigendraws)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora reunites with an old friend.
> 
> Catra and Angella make a mess.
> 
> And Adora makes a bad decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for a brief mention of gore and vomiting in this chapter.**
> 
> hey everyone! since people keep asking, this fic updates every Saturday at ~6:30pm EDT (unless I get held up by something, which I'll post about on my [tumblr](https://catra-adoras.tumblr.com/) if that happens). The whole thing is written but I'm still editing the final chapters.
> 
> also, I don't have twitter, but I screamed because i saw some people recc'ing this fic there. Thanks so much for that! It really means a lot, and I'm sorry i can't like the posts/thank y'all for them directly. 
> 
> Anyway, here's chapter 11! Enjoy. Or cry. Whichever makes the most sense given the circumstances lol.

“Shh...Shhh…” Adora soothes, outstretching a hand to Melog. She drops onto one knee to make herself seem less intimidating. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re not gonna hurt you.”

Melog growls, their magical aura glowing a scalding, spiking red. Adora is wary of their agitation—their fear of the unknown, and the potential threat that Adora and her friends represent. 

And Adora knows...she _knows_ that she’s not Catra. That she’s not the one that Melog is supposed to bond with here, on Krytis. 

But Adora is all that’s left—she has nothing to offer, nothing to give but herself, nothing to hope for. Catra is...Catra is _gone_ , and so is the future that they once knew. That foolish future, where they really, truly thought that they’d achieve some semblance of a ‘happily ever after.’

Only to have it taken away but a single, stupid portal. 

“What are you _doing_?” Bow demands, horrified to see Adora willing to pet something that was seemingly just hunting them. 

They’re standing a few feet away, somewhere behind her—Glimmer and Bow. They keep their distance as Adora does something that, to them, seems incredibly reckless. 

“They’re not trying to hurt us,” Adora says, briefly sending the words over her shoulder before turning back to Melog. She doesn’t want to break eye contact with them. “And we’ll need their help if we’re going to defeat Horde Prime.”

Melog doesn't look the way they should. In Adora’s time—or what was supposed to be her time—Melog assumed the form of a cat. Catra inspired that change in them. They sensed Catra’s pain, her desire to be better, and decided that she could be trusted. 

But right now, Melog is nearly unrecognizable. A formless, shifting, vaguely humanoid figure. 

“Oh,” Glimmer says, startled by realization. “Is this some sort of future thing? Something we did last time, in your timeline…?”

Adora nods wordlessly and continues waiting for Melog to trust her—to move forward.

Not that moving forward is easy for either of them. 

She told Glimmer and Bow the truth after they escaped Horde Prime’s ship. What was the point in keeping secrets, after that? Catra was gone. There wasn’t a future to risk without her. That future...it was incinerated right alongside Catra’s body. 

So Adora told them. She told them everything. She told them about where she came from—a brighter future, where they had already defeated Horde Prime and achieved peace across the universe. She told them about the portal, the failed attempt to rescue Angella that sent her back in time, to _this_ time. 

And she told them about Catra. She told them that Catra was supposed to betray Horde Prime—that Catra was supposed to help them save the universe. 

And that something had gone wrong. 

She still doesn’t know _what_ went wrong, exactly. But something did. Some decision along the way had derailed them—some small change. Something they claimed wouldn’t matter, but did. 

Or maybe it really was just as Horde Prime said. People in the past may not be able to interpret their memories of the future...but that won't stop them from noticing when Catra or Adora lie to their faces.

Adora just can’t believe that Catra was the first to get caught. It should have been her—it should have been Adora. Adora is known for being a terrible actress and a horrifically obvious liar. But Catra? No. Catra is good at that. 

Another sob nearly erupts from Adora’s chest. Or she _was_ good at that. 

Glimmer and Bow struggled to believe her, at first. How were they supposed to accept that Catra, of all people—one of their greatest enemies—was supposed to become their friend and ally? 

It was only when Adora revealed details that she couldn’t otherwise predict—knowledge of Krytis and blockades and chipped princesses—that they slowly warmed to the idea. Perhaps Adora wasn’t just insane with grief, they likely thought. Perhaps Adora _was_ really from the future. And perhaps her knowledge could really help them defeat Horde Prime. 

Well...they were only partially right. Adora _is_ insane with grief. Or at least, that’s how she feels. It’s all she can think about. Catra, in pain. Catra, dying alone. Catra, gone forever.

It hurts like nothing else Adora has felt before. It's worse than any scar-producing injury, worse than Horde Prime’s virus, worse than the magic at the Heart of Etheria. Even during the brief moments that Adora thought Catra was dead, back when she actually managed to rescue her from Horde Prime, it didn’t feel like this. So prolonged. So permanent. 

It’s like something’s _broken_. And not in the easy sense—not in the way that things simply fall apart sometimes, gently falling to pieces. It’s no silent crumbling. No quiet end. 

It’s something else entirely. Something violent. An explosive, seismic breakage inside of her, made of splintered bones and jagged shrapnel. One that never disappears, never relents. It worsens with every breath, impaling her deeper, more severely. Cutting into hearts and stomachs and a thousand other crucial organs inside her. A neverending bleed. 

She explained herself. Her knowledge of the future. And then blindly, senselessly, she found herself walking to the bathroom aboard the ship. 

Images of Horde Prime’s decapitation flashed across her eyes, intercut with imagined visions of Catra’s horrific end. Though perhaps that's the worst, most sickening part. That she’ll never truly know how that happened. That Adora will forever be haunted by these mysterious tortures that she was unable to protect Catra from. 

She leaned over the toilet. Retching, coughing. Trying, desperately, to expel this immeasurable pain from her insides. But while food and bile escaped, nothing else did. She slid to the floor. Slid into unconsciousness. She was content to stay there, unsure of where else she was even supposed to be. Never had she felt so lost, so displaced. A woman from a future that no longer exists; a wife to nothing, and no one. 

Bow and Glimmer found her there eventually. They pulled her upright, cleaned her up. Tucked her into a cot that should have belonged to Catra during her recovery from the chip, but now never would. 

Only when they closed the door did she begin to cry herself into incoherence. She spent days in that bed, trying to etch the memories of her once-future into her mind. She wouldn’t lose them—they never lost any memories of the past or future they changed. But she worried that they would fade all the same, now that they would never happen. 

It was all she thought about. Catra’s mischievous smirk. The way she’d curl over Adora’s body, purring with the pleasure of simply being with her, touching her, holding each other. The way they’d laugh together over some joke that only the two of them understood. The way Catra’s eyes glowed at night, or the particular way her ears twitched at the sound of Adora’s voice. 

Adora only emerged from her haze of misery, memories, and twisted blankets when they received that fated transmission—the one from their friends back on Etheria, the one that warned of Horde Prime’s blockade. 

And then she set course for Krytis. 

This is all Adora has now. The hope to defeat Horde Prime. The hope to make him pay—to destroy him completely. 

No matter the cost. Adora would do anything, give anything. 

Finally, the fear and distress begin to disappear from Melog’s posture. The red glow dissipates into a soft blue. And slowly, they step forward, pressing themselves into Adora’s outstretched palm. 

Once they make contact, Melog makes a terrible, grief-filled mewling noise. Adora knows it’s her fault. Melog is likely bonding with her the same way they once did with Catra. They’ll be attuned to her every thought, every emotion. 

And particularly, her pain. Her grief. 

Their shape begins to change, too. Shifting until they appear exactly as Adora remembers—a large cat on all fours. Their eyes are so sad, so devastated as they watch from under her hand. And somehow it makes it worse, to know that this is just a reflection of her own pain. That she’s burdening Melog with this—this mourning for a future that will never be. 

“I’m sorry,” Adora cries, her voice shattered and shrill. Her vision is muddied by tears and it never stops, this feeling of incurable _brokenness_ , of _wrongness_ , of knowing that it’s not supposed to be like this—

Melog gives a grunt of sympathy and presses even more tightly into her, wrapping themself around her entirely—pressing their cheek against hers and purring in a comforting sort of way. 

She wishes that it helps. But it doesn’t. 

* * *

Catra is making a mess. 

She pulls book after book off the shelves, flinging them open, flipping through the pages, snapping them shut with cries of frustration when she fails to find anything of use. 

“Catra!” Angella says warningly. She rises to her feet, her wings spreading to an intimidating width. “Stop! 

But Catra is beyond it. She is beyond sense, beyond Angella’s warnings or intimidation. There is only this. These books, the shred of hope that one will contain something helpful, something to guide her. 

But this book—this one, right here—it’s useless. Empty of anything that suits Catra’s needs. She tosses it away. To the ground, across the room. It smacks into distant stone with a dull thud. 

Catra keeps muttering to herself as she continues to pull books from the shelves. “There has to be something. Some way to get back there—”

“There is no _there_. It’s an illusion, Catra. It’s not real—”

“Not real?” Catra nearly shrieks. “That illusion is real enough that it’s going to kill my wife!” 

Angella crosses her arms. “And why are you so convinced of this, suddenly?”

Catra sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her newest book falls to her side, still clutched between her claws. “Look,” Catra says. “Adora has this martyr complex. She always has. Maybe always will. It’s not her fault—Shadow Weaver did it to her. Manipulated her into thinking she was always destined for some...heroic sacrifice or something.”

“I am aware of this,” Angella says. “Why do you think I kept her from closing the portal—?”

“But that was hardly the last time she tried to do that—tried to sacrifice herself for the world,” Catra says. “After I switched sides, when we freed Etheria from the Horde...she tried to do something similar. The only way to stop the end of the world was to deliver this failsafe to the core of the planet. It was supposed to free Etheria’s magic—make the princesses and the sorcerers and everyone more powerful.”

Catra scrunches up her eyes, remembering how terrifying it was at the Heart. Adora, dying in her arms. Barely breathing.

“But Adora...she was having trouble turning into She-Ra. And if she wasn’t She-Ra when she delivered the failsafe, the magic at the planet’s core would destroy her. It was dangerous. Deadly, especially with how Adora struggled to control her magic. But Adora was determined to do it. I couldn’t stop her.”

Angella’s features soften at the story. “How did she survive?”

Catra swallows and opens her eyes. “I followed her there—to the Heart. The Heart of Etheria. The Horde tried to kill her. Poison her. She nearly died. But I told her I loved her, and we kissed, and it gave her the confidence to transform. She healed herself—”

Angella nods knowingly. “Love is one of the most powerful forms of magic in existence.”

“Yeah, well,” Catra shrugs rather violently. “Now that I’ve escaped Chasm’s illusion...I think she’s going to cut me out of the story. I think she’s going to convince Adora that I’m dead. That our future is doomed. And then, when Adora goes to the Heart...Chasm will keep her from turning into She-Ra. And I won’t be there to save her.”

“There’s still a chance that she’ll realize that it’s not real,” Angella says gently. 

Catra shakes her head, knowing that there’s no chance, no real one—and devastated by the thought. “No. Adora won’t. If Adora thinks that I’m dead, and that Horde Prime killed me, she won’t stop for anything. She’ll gladly _die_ to make sure that he loses.” 

A broken, hopeless sound escapes Catra’s lips. “And then Chasm will win.”

Catra’s chest heaves as silence envelopes the room. Angella stands before her, eyes narrowed—studying Catra’s face with intense focus. 

“What, exactly,” Angella says slowly, deliberately—her expression hardening yet again, “are you willing to risk to save her?”

Catra clenches a fist and stands a bit straighter. “I’ll do anything. Risk anything.”

Angella raises an eyebrow. “Including your life?”

Catra snorts—like the question couldn’t be easier to answer. “I’d risk far more than that.” 

And then, finally, Angella releases another sigh, her wings folding, loosening, _drooping_ to a resigned position. She pinches the bridge of her nose, her brows knitting like she’s about to do something she’ll soon regret. 

“I might be able to help you,” Angella says solemnly. “But I might also end up killing you in the process.

* * *

With Melog’s help, Adora returns to Etheria. 

She doesn’t waste any time fighting the chipped princesses. Instead, she immediately sends Entrapta off to build her machine—the one that will disrupt the network of chips infecting the populace. She lists off everything she remembers about how the device worked the first time, describing how Entrapta hacked Prime’s signal pattern and hijacked one of his spires.

Even as she’s describing, she’s not sure how much of the information will be useful. She's no scientist—the details she gives are rudimentary at best. But, ultimately, what she remembers seems to be enough for Entrapta. Entrapta gets that look in her eye—like little gears already turning in her head. And Adora knows that she must be on the right track. 

Entrapta is their best hope of saving the chipped princesses, anyway. She always was. And what was to be gained from fighting Scorpia or Mermista or Spinerella anyway? Nothing. Right now, it's just another opportunity for Adora to watch the people she cares about get hurt. 

She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want any of this. She refuses to lose this war, to let Horde Prime reign supreme. But she’s just as sickened by the prospect of winning the war herself—by the life that will follow, so different than what she expected or hoped for, back before she lost Catra. 

And worse, she doesn’t think she can even fight. Not in the way she needs to. 

Every time she tries to turn into She-Ra, the transformation just flickers away. That irrepressible rage that once allowed her to tap into She-Ra’s power—that allowed her to slice off Horde Prime’s head—it’s simply gone now. Evaporated. Morphed into something else, something far less useful and productive. 

When she was that angry, that _murderous_ , at least there was a clear-cut goal. To find Catra’s body and save her. And when that didn’t work, her new goal was to ensure Horde Prime was robbed of his body in the way that Catra was. 

But now all Adora has is crushing, mind-shattering grief. It takes only the barest memory of Catra’s eyes or touch or _absence_ and Adora just can’t do it—she can’t hold on to She-Ra. She can’t be strong, she can’t be powerful. She can only be Adora. Flawed, hurt, hopeless Adora. An unforgivable failure, a breaker of promises. A poor excuse for a wife and an even poorer excuse for a hero. 

Where was she when Catra needed her most? Where _was_ she? Nowhere. Nowhere she should have been. 

At the thought, the sword vanishes from her hand, dissipating like a fine mist, and Adora collapses to the ground. Her eyes spill an endless stream of tears; her mouth, babbling cries for the one person who cannot hear her. Who will never hear her again. 

But she hides this from her friends. They don’t need to know that she’s failing at this too—at turning into She-Ra, the only thing Adora is supposed to be good at. 

And Adora knows what this will mean when the time comes. 

She’s already planning her trip to retrieve it—the Failsafe. Already prepping Bow and Glimmer and Shadow Weaver and Castaspella for the journey to Mystacor. 

Unless Adora can pull herself together—pull She-Ra together—she won’t survive the Heart of Etheria.

She should be afraid. Terrified, even, that the odds are so stacked against her. 

But that’s the strangest part. She’s not afraid at all. 

The future is gone. The only things Adora has left to lose are her friends, the universe. And so long as her sacrifice protects those things…

Then perhaps there’s nothing to fear at all.

* * *

In a strange switching of roles, Catra watches as Angella begins tugging books off shelves and throwing them to the ground.

Though Angella seems less random with her efforts than Catra was. Less frantic. She doesn’t even bother opening the books she pulls down. She merely drops them to the floor. And instead of tearing books from any nearby shelf as a result of nervous pacing, Angella seems focused on a particular location—the centermost bookcase, and the centermost shelf. She directs all her attention to the clearing of its contents. 

Only when the shelf is completely empty does Catra understand what's happening—what Angella is seeking. There’s something there, on the shelf behind the long-spined tomes that Angella just removed. 

It’s a square carved into the stone. Like a tiny doorway of some kind, a hinge just barely protruding from the surface. And across from the hinge, a tiny lock with no apparent keyhole. 

There are symbols too. Symbols at the center of the square. Words that, despite how foreign they appear, whisper their own meaning—just like the symbols on the exterior of this very building. 

_Danger to the caster_ , it reads. 

“'Danger to the caster,'” Catra echoes. “What does that mean?” 

“It’s a warning,” Angella says, fingering the lock of the tiny door. Her brows pull together for a moment, and then she smirks. 

Catra rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I got that part,” she says. “Everything here is a warning. But what does it _mean_?” 

“It’s for spellcasters—magicians, sorcerers. A warning to tell them that the contents of this safe may endanger them, should they open it.”

“And we’re opening it because…?”

“Because I believe that it contains a spellbook,” Angella reveals with a slight smile. “One that might help us rescue Adora.”

That certainly gets Catra’s attention. Anxious, she surges forward so that she’s standing directly beside Angella, in front of the bookshelf. She extends her claws, prepared to cut away the lock.

“Well, let’s get the damn thing open—”

Angella throws out a hand to stop her—hold her back. “That won’t work,” Angella tells her. “I found this safe ages ago, and believe me, I tried to smash it open with every conceivable instrument. It’s closed using magic—and I think it requires a magic spell to be opened. An intricate one, one that only a highly-experienced sorcerer would have memorized, let alone the skill the carry it out.”

Catra groans in frustration. "Then what are we supposed to do?" 

“The good news,” Angella continues, “is that magic tends to make exceptions for She-Ra.” She turns back to Catra and outstretches a hand. “Bring me Adora’s sword.”

Catra obliges without question, scrambling across the ground until she finds the sword where Angella left it—beside Adora’s sleeping body. She briefly grasps at Adora’s hand as she lifts the sword from the floor, then returns it to Angella. 

Angella tightens her grip around the hilt and turns to the little door. The safe, as Angella called it. Catra has never heard the word before. 

“Let’s hope this works,” Angella sighs. And then, with a small grunt of exertion, she swipes the sword across the lock. 

Beneath She-Ra’s magic-infused blade, the lock melts apart like it’s been dropped into a furnace. It dissolves, dripping molten metal onto the shelf below. And without the lock keeping the safe closed, the door begins to drift open with an eerie creak, revealing its contents to Catra and Angella's anxious eyes. 

It’s a book, just as Angella predicted. Though it's too bathed in shadow for Catra to see clearly. 

Angella makes a noise of triumph as she slides the book from its perch in the safe. But as soon as it’s collected into her arms, she nearly topples over, the book is so irregularly heavy. Catra stumbles forward to help her carry it. They jointly convey it to the spot beside Adora, on the floor. 

It’s only once they’re all gathered around the book that Catra gets her first good look at it. It’s a large tome, made of what appears to be dyed red leather. Its cover is carved with symbols too. But unlike the rest of the books in this place...they’re the first symbols that Catra cannot automatically understand. They’re as intelligible to her as a foreign language should be. 

“I can’t read this one,” Catra says, her brow furrowed. 

“That’s because it’s written in magical runes,” Angella explains. “And has been unenchanted with a translation spell. I suspect they did not want inexperienced sorcerers to be able to read this book, even if they did manage to open the safe.”

“Then how are we going to read it?”

“I _can_ read magical runes, to some degree,” Angella says somewhat indignantly. “I was married to a great sorcerer for many years. And though I may not be as skilled as he was...I did pick up a few things.”

Angella splits open the book and begins to read. And it’s only somewhat infuriating for Catra—being so unable to help or understand. She can only sit and listen whenever Angella chooses to describe what she has discovered within the book’s text. 

“This book belonged to a sect of Chasm’s followers,” Angella reveals. 

Catra raises an eyebrow, confused. “What do you mean by _followers_?”

“Worshippers. Cultists. Dark sorcerers who sought her power,” Angella explains. “She was the most feared entity in the universe, for a time. That kind of power was sure to attract acolites.”

It’s an awful thought, but hardly an unbelievable one. Catra remembers the Horde. The old Horde, before Prime’s arrival. Only some of the soldiers were brainwashed orphans, like Catra and Adora were. Some—like Shadow Weaver—chose to join Hordak’s ranks because they thought it would gain them some portion of his power. 

“In some cases,” Angella continues. “she might have even enlisted her followers’ help to trap victims in her illusions. Which—”

“—is exactly what we’d need,” Catra finishes for her, her eyes widening, “if I’m going to sneak back into Chasm’s illusion of the past.”

Angella nods. “I’m going to keep reading. I’ll let you know if I find something.”

* * *

“The rumor is that you’re from the future.”

Adora turns to find Shadow Weaver behind her, leaning into one of the large crates stacked against the wall. They stand in the rebellion’s hideout together. The journey to Mystacor is mere minutes away. 

Melog curls around Adora’s legs and hisses. It’s funny, she thinks briefly, how Melog has maintained so many traits that she remembers Catra having. But perhaps that is simply because Adora misses Catra so badly. Perhaps she is only projecting more grief onto Melog. 

“Or at least,” Shadow Weaver continues casually, “a version of our future.”

Of course Shadow Weaver would wonder. Shadow Weaver was supposed to be the only one with the “secret” knowledge of the Failsafe’s existence. She spent years concealing that information from the rest of the world.

So when Adora revealed how much she knew about its location and nature….it certainly must have surprised her. 

_Disappointed her, more like_ , Adora thinks. It must be less enjoyable for her this way. Shadow Weaver won’t have the pleasure of tricking Adora into accepting the Failsafe. Such games were always a joy of hers—of Shadow Weaver’s. She revels in tricks and manipulations of the mind. 

But Adora is making this too easy for her this time, accepting the Failsafe without a single complaint or hesitation. 

So now, Shadow Weaver seeks to express her complaints. What's the fun in leading Adora to her death if she can't watch Adora cry about it?

“Well?” Shadow Weaver presses. “Is it true?”

Adora clenches her fists and narrows her eyes. “Why do you want to know?” 

Shadow Weaver shrugs. “Curiosity.” 

Adora swallows. She can’t believe it. She can’t believe that Catra is gone, _forever_ , while Shadow Weaver is still here, still breathing, still tormenting Adora in Catra’s absence—

“Yes,” Adora grits out. “I’m from a version of the future.”

Shadow Weaver pauses, seeming almost impressed. Moment after moment passes in furious tension and unanswered inquiry as she scrutinizes Adora, expressionless eyes raking Adora’s face for the barest sign of a lie, or perhaps some indication of insanity.

But Adora knows what she knows. Adora knows what she’s lost, most of all. And even Shadow Weaver can’t make her doubt that now. 

“So you know how this all ends?” Shadow Weaver asks finally. “You know who lives and dies?”

“Not exactly,” says Adora. And then, as she thinks about the death that shouldn’t have happened, and the future that crumbled as a result, her voice begins to shake. “Not anymore.” 

“Oh?” Shadow Weaver sounds all the more intrigued. “And what changed?”

Adora exhales sharply and scrunches up her eyes. “I failed,” she says, voice strained by a mounting sob. “I failed to save Catra from Horde Prime. She was supposed to switch sides. She was supposed to be—”

Adora cuts herself off with a miserable, gasping noise. She doesn’t want Shadow Weaver to know this about them. Shadow Weaver has no right to this knowledge, no right to that intimate, sacred space of Adora’s once-future. She has no place in a world where Adora is safe and happy and able to love freely. 

Shadow Weaver hums. It’s an ambiguous sort of sound, one that Adora can’t interpret. Perhaps it’s an expression of sympathy. Perhaps it’s Shadow Weaver’s way of showing her disappointment—that she expected Catra to be unsalvageable from the very start. 

Adora doesn’t know. Adora doesn’t want to know. 

“If you know so much about the future,” Shadow Weaver says, “then you know how we defeat him? Horde Prime?”

Adora nods wordlessly. 

“And I imagine the Failsafe is critical to his defeat?” 

Another nod. 

“Then I find it quite interesting,” Shadow Weaver continues, “that you didn’t tell your friends about the danger it poses to you. Surely, you must know, if you’ve used the failsafe before.”

Adora sets her jaw and glares. “I know.”

Shadow Weaver snorts as though Adora’s confidence is amusing to her. “And it doesn’t concern you?”

“Why do you _care_?” Adora demands. “You’ll get what you want, won’t you? The magic at the Heart. That’s all you’ve ever wanted. That’s what you groomed me for my entire life—”

“Calm down, calm down,” Shadow Weaver chides, waving a hand—dismissive as ever. “I only want to make sure that you’re prepared. It’s no small feat, what you’re about to do—”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Apparently so. But like you said...things have changed. How will you ensure your success now that the future is different?” She sees Shadow Weaver’s mask turn toward Glimmer and Bow some distance away, where they converse with Castaspella about the upcoming trip. “Will your friends try to stop you if they learn the truth? They may not share your bravery.”

Adora stares at her feet. Despite how she hates it, she knows that Shadow Weaver is right. Once Glimmer and Bow see that Adora is unable to turn into She-Ra, they’ll insist upon protecting her at the Heart. And when the time comes to deliver the Failsafe, they’ll surely try to stop her. Or worse, they’ll put themselves in danger—

“I can offer a solution,” Shadow Weaver says, stepping forward. “Once we return from Mystacor, we can set off for the Heart. Just the two of us.” She cocks her head at Adora. “I think you’ll agree that the sooner we defeat Prime, the better.”

Adora considers for a moment. The first time Adora visited the Heart, Shadow Weaver was there. Shadow Weaver and Catra both. And obviously, things are different now. But it can’t hurt to have Shadow Weaver accompany her—to watch Adora's back as she journeys down the pulsing center of the planet. 

And besides...it will be far easier to say goodbye to Shadow Weaver than it will be to say goodbye to her friends. 

Adora again affixes her eyes to the floor. “In case I don’t…” She hesitates. Clears her throat. Looks back up. “In case I don’t make it back,” Adora continues, “I need you to promise me something.”

Shadow Weaver goes silent. She’s not the type to make a promise without first knowing what’s expected of her. She never has been, never will be. She’s far too calculating for that. 

“If I don’t make it,” Adora says. “You use the magic at the Heart to kill Horde Prime. I don’t care how, or how long it takes, just get it done. And in exchange…” Adora exhales and takes a step forward, trying to appear as intimidating as she can muster. “I’ll make sure you don’t die this time. Deal?” 

Shadow Weaver jolts slightly. That information surprised her, at the very least. The knowledge that she died in Adora’s future. And the realization that there may still be a hope of saving herself. 

But she composes herself just as quickly, evidently finding the terms of Adora’s deal to her liking. 

“Very well,” Shadow Weaver says. 

And Adora suspects that, beneath the mask, Shadow Weaver is smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adora is...😬 ...she ain't doing well is she?
> 
> PSSST! if you're an artist i am desperate and begging for more art of this fic, nothing would make me happier.
> 
> [insert john mulaney joke about 'why do people shush animals']


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadow Weaver gets impatient.
> 
> Adora loses her balance.
> 
> And Catra falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 CHAPTERS LEFT...
> 
> Thanks so much for continuing to support this fic! Last chapter saw a bit of a dip in comments, so please remember to tell me your thoughts! Feedback is super, super important to me and writers everywhere! If you don't feel like commenting but you're enjoying, please consider dropping a kudos as well!
> 
> Also, [hitonoto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitonito/pseuds/hitonito) wrote a [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554414) for this fic!!! Make sure to check it out!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter! Please please please leave comments I need them to stay motivated 🙏

“This is it,” Angella says, raising the book for Catra to see—the page bookmarked with Angella’s index finger. 

Catra leans over the book, teeth gnawing at her lip to keep it from trembling. 

She can’t read any piece of the text. It’s still written in runes, still beyond her comprehension. But, sure enough, at the center of the page is something Catra can make sense of—a rough sketch of a face with a spiral symbol glowing atop its forehead. Just like Adora’s. 

“There are instructions here,” Angella says. “Instructions on how to cast the spell. On how to trap victims in Chasm’s illusion. One of us will have to activate the spell, the other will have to fall under its influence.”

Catra’s lips quirk upward into the barest, bitterest smirk. “Great. Let’s do it. I’ll go in after her—”

“Now Catra,” Angella says warningly. “You need to understand. This will be exceedingly dangerous. I learned _some_ sorcery during my time married to Micah, but nothing to this degree. The spells in this book will likely be beyond my beginner’s ability.”

“Then we’ll keep trying,” Catra tells her. “We’ll keep trying until you get it—”

“It might not be a matter of practice, Catra,” Angella insists, her voice stern. “This is a complex spell. If I make a mistake during its casting...I could kill you. I could kill us both, even. Both our bodies could end up separated from our minds.”

Catra is silent for several moments as Angella’s words sink in. 

It’s one thing to risk herself like this. But to risk Angella too? After everything? After Catra already trapped her in this wasteland for years? How would that be in any way fair?

Catra takes a pained look at Adora—still fast asleep on the floor—then turns back to Angella. She can’t ask this of Angella. Not even for Adora. Adora wouldn’t even want her to—

“Look,” Catra says. “If you don’t want to do this...take this risk for me...I understand. I won’t force you to, either—”

“Oh, don’t be foolish,” Angella sighs, exasperated. She jerks her head in Adora’s direction. “She came all this way to rescue me. You both did. And from what you’ve told me, you both saved my kingdom.”

“But—”

Angella holds up a silencing hand. “You might have been the one to trap me here,” Angella acknowledges. “But I truly believe that some tragedies happen for a reason. So if my sacrifice led to you changing your mind, the Horde’s defeat, my family’s happiness…” Angella provides Catra with a small smile. “Then it was well worth it.” 

Catra’s mouth falls half-open as she struggles to say something—anything—in response. But there’s nothing. There’s no sufficient way to thank someone for this kind of generosity, this kind of forgiveness. 

Angella draws the book closer, settling the worn pages and leather cover in her lap. She reads several more paragraphs, her brows pulling closer together with every rune that passes across her eyes. 

“You said Chasm trapped you in a joint illusion, rather than separate nightmares?”

Catra nods. 

Air gusts between Angella’s lips. “It’s a more complex spell, certainly. Quite a bit more could go wrong.”

“You can do this,” Catra assures her. “You’re the Queen of Bright Moon. For years, you almost single-handedly staged a rebellion against the Horde. This will be a cakewalk by comparison.”

Angella chuckles, bitterness in her every exhale. “I wish I shared your confidence. But if the alternative is Chasm gaining control of She-Ra…” She sighs and hefts the book higher into her arms. “I suppose I can’t afford to make a mistake.”

Angella pats the floor beside Adora. “Lay down. And I will begin to cast the spell.” 

* * *

The plan to retrieve the failsafe succeeds without a hitch. 

It was almost easy, even. Adora remembered everything about Mystacor’s defenses. She remembered how to sidestep the chipped sorcerers patrolling the corridors. She remembered which traps to avoid in the labyrinth beneath the city. 

Her friends nearly grew uneasy. Never had one of their plans worked so perfectly, so easily. Throughout their battles, Glimmer, Bow, and Adora had always found their strategies falling apart. And more often than not, improvisation became their main tactic. 

But then again, Adora had never leveraged her knowledge of the future so fully. Perhaps she should have done that all along. All that reliving of the past exactly as it was—it was truly for nothing. She was fated to lose Catra regardless. 

Maybe Catra would have lived, had Adora acted differently. If she had ignored Catra’s pleas to keep the past exactly the same. Maybe they really should have eloped to the Crimson Waste, just like they joked about that one time. 

Adora will never know. She’ll never know what the right choice was—never know whether Catra could have been saved. 

Finally, after a short, fairly uneventful journey through Mystacor, Adora and her friends found themselves standing before it—the Crystal of Arxia. The Failsafe. Glowing a bright blue, snapping and crackling above her like a wild beast tied to a post.

It was exactly as she remembered it. Just as powerful, just as foreboding. And it was almost eerie, to step forward—toward the Failsafe—with no one to stop her. With no one to question the risk of this choice. 

Last time, Catra was the one who tried to protect her. Who begged her to reconsider, to let someone else take the responsibility. Adora didn’t listen. And she wouldn’t listen now, even if Catra was here. 

She felt Shadow Weaver’s eyes boring into her as she climbed the steps to the dais. This was what Shadow Weaver had waited her whole life to see, after all. Adora, prepared to give her life so that Shadow Weaver could gain power. 

Adora hesitated before stepping beneath the crystal. She remembered Catra calling to her, pleading with her. 

“ _Please_ ,” Catra had begged. “ _It doesn’t always have to be you_.”

Adora exhaled sharply. That was where Catra was wrong. It _did_ have to be her. It would always have to be her—in the past, in the future, in some strange alternate timeline that her failures forged for her. Adora would never, ever escape this destiny. 

But Adora had always been brave, if nothing else. Brave enough to do what’s necessary. 

So she stepped beneath the crystal. She let its tendrils of electricity fly down to trap her, suspend her, _electrify_ her. It sizzled beneath her skin, through her veins, climbing to a spot on her chest and mounting there—building and building. Adora could feel the Failsafe attaching itself to her body there, at that spot. So white-hot and blinding. 

And then, finally, it released her. Adora dropped to the ground, her knees buckling. Her elbows pressed into the stone floor, her breath panting unevenly from between her lips. 

She looked down. And there it was. The Failsafe, glowing pale blue just above the skin of her chest. 

Now, Adora examines herself—and the Failsafe—in the mirror. It’s exactly as she remembers. Strangely beautiful, but ominous. Not quite carved into her body but irremovable all the same. There’s an odd heat to it too, that Failsafe. When Adora cups a hand over it, her skin tingles with a mild warmth. 

She straightens, keeping eye contact with herself as she outstretches her hand. She wills a sword to appear there, between her fingers. Trying, _trying_ to summon the barest flicker of magic, the tiniest shred of hope for herself.

But then she imagines Catra standing there. Reflected in the mirror alongside her. Taunting her for taking too much time to get ready before one of Bright Moon’s many balls. 

“ _Stop messing with your hair,_ ” Catra said once, with a laugh. She wrapped both arms around Adora’s stomach and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “ _I swear, it looks great. But if we don’t leave soon, it’s gonna be gray by the time we get there—”_

Grief shatters Adora’s concentration, and suddenly she’s trying, trying, _failing_. Her resolve withers. She can’t….she can’t do it, she just can’t. She can’t turn in to She-Ra—not anymore. Not after everything—

She lowers her hand with a short sigh of resignation. Really, she can’t expect anything different than this. Why would She-Ra even want Adora to summon her? Adora, who destroyed the future. Even She-Ra likely knows how much of a failure she—

Shadow Weaver materializes in the mirror behind her. Adora jumps, her body instinctively tensing, but Shadow Weaver’s hand on her shoulder gives her pause—makes her freeze. 

Her senses return to her, and Adora lowers her defenses. She’ll need Shadow Weaver’s help if she’s to defeat Horde Prime. She has to remember that. 

“The Failsafe is ours,” Shadow Weaver says. “Your friends are asleep. So what, exactly, are we waiting for?”

Adora glances out at the rest of the rebellion. The majority of her friends are, in fact, fast asleep—just as Shadow Weaver says they are. Not that they can be blamed for that. It must be 2am, 3am? Adora has lost track of time, and time has certainly lost track of her. 

Adora tugs her jacket over her shirt. Then her belt. Then her boots. 

She turns back to Shadow Weaver, her features forced into an expression of determination. “We’re not waiting for anything. In fact–” 

She grabs a small piece of paper off a nearby table—one that she prepared days ago for Glimmer and Bow. An explanation. An apology for what she’s about to do, and what she ruined along the journey here. 

And more than anything, it contains what she won’t get to say this time, or ever again. That she is endlessly grateful for them. That she loves them. That she couldn’t have become She-Ra or saved the universe without them. Her best friends. Glimmer and Bow. 

“We’ll leave right away.”

Shadow Weaver nods. 

When Adora takes a step forward, Melog slinks into the space directly in front of her—blocking her path. They make a low, mournful sound, and Adora leans down to rub a hand behind their ear. 

“I’m sorry, Melog, but you can’t come with us,” Adora whispers. “I’ll need you to protect Glimmer and Bow when the time comes.”

Melog makes a discontented sound—clearly displeased to be left behind—but doesn’t protest further. Adora briefly presses her forehead against theirs, then straightens as she prepares to leave. She circumvents Melog with Shadow Weaver trailing close behind. 

They’re both silent as they walk out of the rebels’ hideout. Adora only stops once—briefly—to place the note in the spot between Glimmer and Bow’s cots, where she knows that they’ll discover it. 

No one notices as they slip outside, the purple vines closing behind them with only the faintest rustle. 

“Well?” Shadow Weaver hisses. “Aren’t you going to turn into She-Ra?”

Adora’s fists clench at her side. She presses her lips tightly together and steps forward, walking away so that Shadow Weaver can’t see the lie etched so plainly across her features. 

“I’ll transform once we’re there—at the Heart,” Adora claims. “She’ll only slow me down in the meantime. Draw too much attention.”

She hears Shadow Weaver give a short hum, and Adora doesn’t need to look behind herself to know that Shadow Weaver is following her forward. 

She also doesn’t need to look to know this—that Shadow Weaver doesn’t believe a word of what Adora says. 

And she wonders if Shadow Weaver will enjoy watching her die. 

* * *

Catra spreads a tapestry on the floor beside Adora. Gradually, she settles herself down upon it—stretching her legs out, dropping onto her back. She rests both hands on her stomach and cranes her neck to continue watching Angella. 

“Dark magic is parasitic by nature,” Angella says, not looking up from the book. “It draws power from external sources. The fear and pain of its victims. The life force of the environment. Wellsprings of magic, such as crystals, runestones, cosmic events.” Her eyes slowly find their way to Adora. “...and princesses.”

Angella sighs as though ashamed. “I am powerless here without the Moonstone. So if I am to do this dark magic, I’ll need to draw power from a different source. And unfortunately for us...we have only one source of magical power available to us.” 

Angella’s eyes find Catra’s. “I cannot ask Adora this question because she is not capable of answering. So instead, I will ask you, as you are her wife. Do you permit me to draw power from She-Ra?”

Catra glances at Adora, sleeping, and then back at Angella. She bites her lip briefly. “Will it hurt her?”

“It might cause her some discomfort,” Angella says. “Make her feel momentarily weakened, or faint. But it should not hurt her. And She-Ra’s magic is so strong...I doubt it will affect her for long.” 

Catra hesitates for only a moment. “If it’s a question of Chasm feeding off her to do magic, and _you_ feeding off her to do magic…” Catra sighs. “I guess you’re my vote. Do what you have to.”

Angella nods solemnly, then reaches for Adora—arranging herself so that she’s sitting upright with Adora’s hand clasped in one of hers, and the book balanced on her knees. 

“I suppose the only thing we can hope for now,” Angella mutters, “is that I’ve maintained my rune-reading skills after all these years.” She shuts her eyes tight, like she’s praying. “Oh Micah, be with me…”

And Catra knows that it’s not the right time—that for Adora’s sake, she shouldn’t distract Angella from the matter at hand. But it also feels wrong not to tell her.

“He’s alive, you know,” Catra blurts. “Micah.”

A pause. And then—

“ _What_?”

Angella’s eyes have flown open. Disbelief consumes her every feature. 

“King Micah,” Catra says again. “He’s alive. The Horde didn’t kill him. They sent him to Beast Island instead, and he survived there. Adora went there to rescue him and...well...”

Catra turns slowly to Adora, whose brows seem tied together, she is so agitated in sleep. 

“She did it,” Catra finishes. “She rescued him.”

Several moments pass over them before Angella speaks again.

“Micah…” Angella says finally, her eyes widening bit by bit as she processes Catra’s words, “...is alive?”

“Alive and well,” Catra says. “He’s been helping Glimmer rule Bright Moon in your absence. He misses you. They both do—”

“And Adora saved him?” Angella interrupts.

“Well, technically it was Adora, Bow, Swift Wind, _and_ Entrapta,” Catra corrects herself. “But yeah. It was Adora who led the mission.”

For the longest time, Angella seems simply frozen. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Only when a tear begins to track down Angella’s cheek does Catra realize that she’s still alive at all. 

Angella releases Adora to scrub the tear away, then reclaims her hold on the hand. 

“We can’t afford further delays,” Angella says, voice wavering slightly. “We _will_ get Chasm out of Adora’s head.” 

She hefts the book slightly higher, rendering the text more clearly within her vision. “Lay down fully,” Angella orders Catra, voice trembling. “I doubt you’d like to hit your head upon the stone when the spell takes effect.”

Catra obliges without complaint. She sets her head upon the tapestry and shifts repeatedly to get comfortable, but she quickly discovers that there’s little comfort to be had. Even with the tapestry beneath her, the ground still feels hard and unpleasantly cold. 

She takes hold of Adora’s other hand—the one that Angella has left free and empty. And at this point, Catra isn’t sure if she’s trying to comfort Adora...or herself.

“I’m ready,” Catra says, even though she feels anything but. 

Angella inhales deeply.

And then she sets her gaze upon the book...and begins to trace the runes into the air. 

* * *

Adora gasps, her vision swimming. She flings out a hand to grab hold of a nearby tree branch, and it’s all that keeps her from falling face-first into the dirt. 

Just a moment ago, she was perfectly fine, determinedly making her way through the woods. But now...now it feels like her blood is being pulled from her veins. That’s the only way to describe it. It’s like something within her is being drained, something vital—

“Adora?” she hears Shadow Weaver call, but faintly. Her voice sounds distorted—almost like it’s not real at all. 

Adora clings to the tree branch and shuts her eyes tight as the world spins and dissolves around her. But even the tree branch seems to dissolve, somehow. Turning to pulp beneath her hands—

* * *

Beside Catra, Adora’s whole body tenses. 

Angella continues siphoning magic from her. It's a strange process to watch, especially with Catra craning her neck to do so. She sees She-Ra’s golden glow waver a bit, dulling to a muted light rather than her signature, almost star-like brightness. 

Angella’s skin, meanwhile, begins to radiate a pale pink light of its own. A glow that she has likely not held in years, it has been so long since she felt magic. 

But all wonder fades from Catra’s face as Adora releases a high whimper, her face scrunched up in what appears to be pain. 

Catra weaves her arm through Adora’s and squeezes her hand, pushing herself even closer into Adora’s side. “Shh...it’s okay,” she soothes, despite her own mounting panic. “It’s okay, Adora, I promise. We’re only trying to help you—”

Adora only whimpers again, louder this time—nearly a cry. Catra winces at the sound, then snaps her eyes to Angella’s. 

“I thought you said this wouldn’t hurt her!” Catra demands. 

Angella’s hand shakes as she continues drawing runes into the air. She too tightens her grip on Adora. “I’m sorry!” Angella says frantically. “This spell is not designed to be gentle to the victim. I’m trying my best to limit it, but I’m not exactly an expert—”

Adora whimpers again and squirms like she’s trying to free herself from Angella’s grip. 

“Try harder, please!” Catra says through gritted teeth, struggling to keep herself from becoming unreasonably angry because she _knows_. She knows that Angella is trying her best and that it’s not her fault, but Catra also can’t stand this—lying helpless while Adora is in pain. 

Adora continues to squirm and cry out, and Catra buries her face into Adora’s neck—trying her best to hold on to her, to comfort her. 

“It’s okay, Adora,” she murmurs into her ear. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere—”

Adora whimpers again, her head thrashing. And that’s when Catra hears it. It’s slight—barely audible, nearly unintelligible. But it’s there all the same. 

“... _Catra_?”

The name has barely ghosted from Adora’s lips when Angella releases a large, tremulous exhale—the spell-casting hand stilling in the air, the other gently lowering Adora’s hand to the ground. 

“That’s it!” Angella announces, her chest heaving. “That’s the end of the siphoning spell.”

Adora’s relief is instantaneous. Her body relaxes back onto the tapestry, and Catra can only make a low, grateful noise as She-Ra’s golden glow begins to restore itself. 

They sit there for a few moments after. Angella, recovering from the strain of performing the spell. Catra, curled against Adora, smiling uncontrollably into Adora’s neck. 

“What are you smiling about?” Angella asks, still breathing heavily. 

“She heard me,” Catra says, scooting even closer to Adora. She presses a kiss to Adora’s jaw. “She heard me...and she said my name.”

* * *

Adora is trapped in some sort of haze, unable to make sense of her blurred, formless surroundings. 

“ _It’s okay, Adora_ ,” she hears Catra cry from somewhere in the haze. “ _It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere—_ ”

“Catra?” Adora mumbles in response, knowing it doesn’t make sense. Knowing that it’s impossible. 

But she also knows what she heard. _Who_ she heard. She would recognize that voice anywhere, even in a crowd of a thousand voices, even on a battlefield that roars with artillery fire, even in a spinning, senseless place like this. 

“Adora!” 

Though that is a different voice. A harsher, crueler one. One that Adora cannot stand to hear, not now, not after getting to listen to Catra one last time—

Adora’s eyes flutter open. She’s on the ground, her back crushed against what feels like a snarl of tree roots. Shadow Weaver’s unforgiving mask looms over her. She’s kneeling close over Adora—too close—and Adora resists the urge to bat her face away. 

“You lost consciousness,” Shadow Weaver informs her—as though that part wasn’t already obvious. 

Adora grunts and presses a palm against her own forehead, warding off the headache blossoming there. “Yeah,” she says. “I got that part, thanks.” 

“Do you know what happened?”

Adora sits up and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I was just walking and suddenly…”

She trails off, remembering how it felt to have _something_ pulled from deep inside of her. Something critical. But then she heard…

Well, she _thought_ she heard Catra. Catra, claiming that she was there. That she wasn’t going anywhere. Her voice was so clear, so real-seeming...

But it was probably a hallucination, Adora thinks bitterly. A vivid hallucination, but a hallucination all the same. 

Shadow Weaver extends a hand to help Adora to her feet. “Come,” she orders. “We can’t afford to waste time. If you are well enough to walk, we should continue onward.”

Adora scoffs at the obviously _overflowing_ motherly concern and knocks Shadow Weaver’s hand away. 

“I’m fine,” she huffs, staggering to her feet and brushing dirt from her pants and jacket. “It was just a fluke. I can’t let it distract me.”

Adora shakes out her legs. As soon as she locates their path from before, she surges forward. Ready to finish this. Ready to end the war, no matter how she might stumble along the way. 

Shadow Weaver is left trailing behind her. 

“Distract you?” Shadow Weaver echoes. “I wouldn’t exactly call fainting a mere _‘distraction_.’”

“What does it matter?” Adora demands, calling the words over her shoulder. “Besides, she—” She stops. Corrects herself. “ _It’s_ gone now, anyway. Whatever it was.”

Her shoulders hunch. She turns around and keeps walking. 

* * *

Catra watches Adora’s eyes continue to move beneath her eyelids. She keeps one hand entwined with Adora’s, the other trailing the line of Adora’s jaw.

“I would suggest that you close your eyes,” says Angella. The former queen rolls her neck around her shoulders in an attempt to relieve some of the tension there. “It will likely make the process less disorienting.”

Catra doesn’t answer, but does as she’s told. She shuts her eyes...but her hand clutches Adora’s ever-tighter. 

“I am beginning the second part of the spell,” Angella tells her gently. “If this works, you’ll be sent back into Chasm’s illusion. But remember—the illusion is not real. Whatever you feel is in your complete control. Chasm will try to convince you otherwise.” 

Catra nods. 

Nods...and then waits. 

She hears the sound of pages rustling. The faint _whoosh_ of Angella’s fingers carving runes into the air. Angella’s uneven breaths, so strained by her concentration. Adora’s far steadier inhales and exhales, smooth and rhythmic in sleep. 

That’s what she hears, anyway, until all noise abruptly cuts out. Suddenly, she is surrounded by an entirely different set of noises. The humming of insects and the sigh of the wind passing between tree leaves. 

Catra’s eyes blink open. 

And she’s back in the Whispering Woods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anachronism, alternatively titled: "i hurt adora repeatedly"


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra runs into a wall. 
> 
> Adora has some good (bad) luck. 
> 
> And Chasm offers a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH SO CLOSE TO 1.5K KUDOS! Thanks so much, everyone! And of course, thank you for OVER 60 COMMENTS last chapter! I haven't seen that many since the plot twist in chapter 8. Absolutely keep it up! I love reading your thoughts, so please make sure to tell me what you think of this chapter. There's only two more after this one, and BOIII this one is PAINFUL!
> 
> I won't hold you up any longer. Enjoy!

Barely a few minutes pass before Catra hears voices. 

“We’re almost there,” one says. 

Accompanying the sound is heavy, determined footsteps—twigs and sticks breaking with every stride. The crackle of bushes being pushed out of the way.

Catra knows that voice better than any other. She knows the sound of those movements, too. That military-style, almost reckless cadence of steps. The forcefulness with which things are shoved out of her path. 

Adora.

Catra nearly sobs with relief. She opens her mouth to call Adora’s name—to find her in the trees—but the sound of another person approaching interrupts her. 

“Good,” the second voice answers—and it’s yet another sound that Catra knows well, though it’s hardly as pleasant to hear. 

Shadow Weaver’s voice. But no footsteps. She was always too discreet. A phantom of a woman, always—even in a dreamworld. 

“The sooner we are at the Heart, the safer we will be,” Shadow Weaver says. “If the Queen wakes before we’re there, she will surely teleport in to stop us.”

Catra freezes. The Heart. That’s what Shadow Weaver said. They’re already on their way to the Heart—and have nearly arrived there too, if Shadow Weaver and Adora’s words are any indication. 

The Heart...where Adora will sacrifice herself. At least, she will so long as Catra isn’t there to stop her. 

But Catra _is_ here now. She can do this. She can stop Adora—

“Adora!” she calls as loudly as she can. Except—

Nothing. No sound escapes her mouth. She tries again. Tries to scream at the very top of her lungs. But no matter her efforts, no matter her volume, she simply cannot produce a sound. It’s like she’s been muted, somehow. 

Catra shakes her head. She can still find Adora. She can still stop her—

She turns and follows the sound of Adora’s footsteps, still cracking and stomping their way through the underbrush. And that’s when she notices something especially strange. That when Catra walks—that when she tries to push bushes and plants out of her path—she simply passes through the obstacles around her. Like some sort of ghost or projection.

Adora bursts through the trees just ahead of her. And with a single glance, Catra can see how exhausted she looks. How defeated. Her ponytail is unkempt. Her eyes, encircled by dark splotches. 

She doesn’t react to Catra’s presence in the least. If anything, she stares right through her, her eyes focused on the treeline beyond. Catra must be invisible to her. Shielded from sight, as well as the ability to make sound. 

The Failsafe glows at the front of Adora’s shirt. It blazes into Catra’s eyes like a flare, she is so horrified by its presence. Because it’s really true, what Catra feared. Adora is actually going to let herself die at the Heart. 

Catra reaches out with both hands, desperate to stop her. Desperate to pull Adora into her arms and hold her until she sees sense. 

But Adora just walks forward. Physically stepping _through_ Catra in her eagerness to reach the Heart. Shadow Weaver follows silently behind her, and Catra shivers as the echo of the long-dead sorceress passes through her. 

Adora and Shadow Weaver disappear into the next treeline, leaving Catra all alone. Alone, and helpless to change anything. 

Something has gone wrong, Catra realizes. The spell has gone wrong—

“Well, well, well,” a voice chides. “How did _you_ get back here?”

Catra turns to see Chasm lurking behind her, her bright red face nearly glowing in the night, her teeth glinting an unsettling, nearly-blinding white. 

Chasm laughs and swipes a hand through Catra’s torso. It passes straight through her—which only makes Chasm laugh harder. 

“Oh, you’ll have to try harder than this,” Chasm chuckles. “Though I can’t fathom how you even managed this much. Must feel pretty awful, huh? Being completely powerless. Trapped.”

Chasm’s smirking features collapse into a snarl. “I bet you can’t imagine being like this for thousands of years. But I can. I’ve lived it. And I won’t live it again.”

Catra shuts her eyes. Shuts her eyes and wills herself _awake_. This is...this is the absolute _last_ way she wants this to go. She can’t live out an existence like this. Here, but not really here at all, unable to be seen or heard…

Helpless. She’s helpless like this. She’ll be doomed to watch Adora die, unable to act. 

_Wake up,_ she orders herself. _This isn’t real, wake up!_

And she does.

* * *

Catra shoots upright with a gasp. 

For a moment, she merely glances around, confirming that she’s where she should be—back in the plane between worlds. Laid down on the floor in that strange stone hut filled with books, her side pressed against Adora’s.

She squeezes Adora’s hand and sighs. And what a relief it is, to touch someone and have an actual physical presence, to not feel like a ghost—

“Catra!” Angella exclaims, mouth spread into an eager smile. “You’re awake! Did you…?”

Angella’s eyes fixate on Adora—acknowledging her continued unconsciousness—and the question trails into silence. The answer is apparent. No, Catra did not manage to save Adora. 

Angella’s smile disappears as quickly as the question does. Catra notices, briefly, that Angella’s pale pink glow has disappeared, diminished by the spell that half-placed Catra back in Chasm’s illusion. 

“The spell must have gone wrong,” Catra says. “I was back in the dream, yeah, but I wasn’t _really_ there. No one could see me or hear me. People could...they could pass right through me—”

Angella inhales sharply and clutches the spellbook. An edge of panic creeps into her voice. “I...I must have drawn the wrong rune. Or perhaps missed one.”

But now that Catra is back here—where she is real and exists—she feels surprisingly calm. She stretches her limbs and settles back down on the tapestry. “Well,” she says. “We’ll just have to try again.” 

Angella shoots her an incredulous look.“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Catra, listen—” Angella says. “Clearly my ability with runes isn’t what it used or needs to be. If anything, you were lucky that the effect wasn’t worse. I could have very well killed you—”

“No, you listen to _me_ ,” says Catra. “While I was in there, I saw Adora. I saw her! She has the Failsafe. She’s already on her way to the planet’s Heart. If we don’t do this right now, Chasm _will_ kill her.”

Before Angella can protest further, Catra merely shuts her eyes—preparing to again be transported into Chasm’s world of illusions. “Now please...just do the spell again. I can’t lose her. Especially not like this—” 

“It’s not so easy,” Angella says with a sigh. “I’ll have to do it again. I’ll have to siphon more power from her, from Adora—”

“Good,” Catra says. 

“Good?” Angella demands indignantly. “Why on Etheria would you consider that _‘good_?’”

“It’s good,” Catra says. “Because maybe it will slow her down. Last time she heard me. Maybe I can get her to hear me again.” 

* * *

They’ve just stepped inside the Crystal Castle when Adora is struck by that feeling again. That mind-addling sensation of being drained—of being emptied of some vital force within her. 

She groans and—unable to do much else—sinks to her knees. To the floor. Her eyes scrunch closed, and she curls an arm around her stomach as though trying to hold onto whatever’s being taken from deep inside of her. 

It’s not pain, exactly. She realizes that now. Just a feeling of profound wrongness. A strange sense of loss. Loss of bearings, of sense, of _herself_. 

But she also can’t bring herself to be afraid. Not after what happened last time. Not after she heard—

She suddenly can’t even feel the floor beneath her. 

But she can feel...something. Not cold, crystalline flooring but…

Fabric? Why does it feel as though Adora is lying on fabric? 

“ _Adora!”_ cries Catra’s voice. _“Don’t do it! Do you hear me?”_

A sob escapes Adora’s lips. She feels sightless and small, curled up on the ground like this. But there’s also an incredible relief in this—in hearing Catra’s voice for even the briefest, hallucinatory moments. “Catra…”

“ _Adora, it’s not real. None of this—”_

And then, suddenly, there’s only silence. It’s all gone. That pulling feeling in Adora’s stomach. The sound of Catra’s voice. The nonexistent fabric beneath Adora’s body. 

She opens her eyes again. She finds that she is, in fact, on the ground—not lying upon some swathe of fabric, like she imagined. 

Catra’s voice rings in her ears despite its disappearance. Surely, it was some strange hallucination brought on by her fainting spell. Bow always tells her that stress results in strange dreams, and passing out in addition to being stressed probably results in even stranger dreams. 

Like hearing her dead wife’s voice, for instance. 

Besides, what did it even mean? _Don’t do it_ , Catra said. Don’t do what? Pass out? Adora was absolutely trying her best in that department, but there was little choice to be had. 

And then that other equally confusing part. _It’s not real_. That’s what Catra said. She meant the hallucinations, didn’t she? That fabric beneath her. Maybe the sound of Catra’s voice itself. None of that was real. 

Shadow Weaver nudges Adora with a foot. 

“It happened again,” Shadow Weaver observes with a degree of annoyance. 

“Yes, thank you,” Adora says sarcastically. “I realized that.”

“Well, if you have not realized,” Shadow Weaver continues, nearly hissing the words, “we are running out of time. We need to deliver the Failsafe as soon as possible—”

“I know, I know,” Adora snaps. She sits up, testing the waters. All dizziness seems to have evaporated, luckily. She should be able to stand. 

And so she does. Pushing herself back to her feet, once again brushing dirt and dust from her clothes. 

“Perhaps now would be a good time to transform into She-Ra,” Shadow Weaver suggests. “And heal yourself of this affliction—”

“Not yet,” Adora lies. “Not until we’re there. Not until we’re at the Heart.” 

She steps forward, past Shadow Weaver. And there, just beyond her, is the projection of a Light Hope-like woman. It flickers and crackles in the shadowy decay of the castle, which was left largely broken and collapsed after Adora destroyed the sword. 

Adora steps in front of her. In front of the flickering hologram. The Failsafe over Adora’s heart seems to glow ever-warmer here, so close to the Heart. Almost searingly so. 

“ _Warning_ ,” the hologram announces once she’s stable enough to actually transmit sound. “ _Planetary Facilitator Light Hope protocol is offline. Manual administrator access not recommended at this time_.”

“We’re friends of Mara,” Adora says, gesturing to the Failsafe affixed to her chest. “Now show me where the Heart of Etheria is.”

* * *

Angella lowers Adora’s hand back to her side. The siphoning spell is complete. Angella is once again glowing with the magical radiance that she managed to transfer from She-Ra. 

Catra, meanwhile, kisses the knuckle of the hand that she held during the process. Adora’s body has gone limp again—listless in sleep—but for a moment, during the spell, she was tense with discomfort. 

Tense with discomfort...but perhaps just reachable enough for her to hear Catra, and listen. 

Catra whispered several warnings into Adora’s ear, but she can’t be sure how many of them reached her—reached Adora. She knows at least one did. When she yelled Adora’s name, when she yelled for Adora not to do it, not to sacrifice herself. 

She only knows this because Adora responded. Quietly. Softly. Once again with nothing but Catra’s name. But Catra also can’t be sure that her words arrived intact. For all she knows, they could’ve been distorted, or cut off—

“Are you ready to go in again?” Angella asks softly. 

Catra takes one last look at Adora—presses one last kiss into her hand—and then nods. 

“I’m ready.”

“Then lay back down,” Angella says, raising the book so she can read and copy every detail—determined to get the spell right this time. “And we’ll begin.”

* * *

Nothing feels emptier than this. 

Adora walks the corridors beneath the Crystal Castle with only Shadow Weaver beside her. Last time, at least, she was accompanied by Glimmer and Bow. Glimmer and Bow...who tried to shoot her encouraging smiles, or offered words of assurance. 

But Shadow Weaver provides no such comforts. She glides silently and expressionlessly through the hallways, barely sparing Adora a glance as they both continue onward. 

And it feels empty. Adora just feels so empty, so hollow. Because this is it, isn’t it? This is the end of her life, and there’s no one here. No one who cares about her, not really. And she knows that it has to be this way. That there’s no other solution, no other alternative to destroying the Heart to keep it from Horde Prime’s clutches. 

But she wishes...she wishes she wasn’t so alone here. She wishes she had Glimmer or Bow or—

A laugh echoes through the hallways, suddenly. A sarcastic, almost biting laugh that could really only belong to one person. A laugh that she knows better than any other, it is so ingrained in Adora’s heart and soul and memory.

She knows what this is. It’s happened before, after all. And if she were smart, she would ignore it. She would simply keep going and keep her head down, her memories in check. 

But the prospect is too enticing. She just wants one last look. One last chance to see—

Adora tears down the nearest corridor. Sprinting, desperately, to the source of the sound, nearly skidding past the turn, she is so eager—

“Hey, Adora.”

Catra has just spun around, her face split into a grin. But it’s different from the last time. It isn’t the short-haired, twenty-one-year-old Catra she expected, but rather...the Catra that she misses the most. Catra, dressed casually in Bright Moon-styled clothes, a thick pile of hair pulled back into a ponytail. 

It’s not a special outfit by any means. It’s simply how Catra looked in the everyday, after the war. In fact, she looks exactly as Catra did when Adora kissed her, right before she stepped into the portal. 

It’s a memory, Adora realizes. A memory of the future. Or the once-future. 

But that doesn’t make sense. Light Hope...she couldn’t read memories of the future. Or at least that’s what Adora thought. But maybe that doesn’t apply anymore. Maybe now that it’s not their future, it’s just a memory like any other—

But all of Adora’s questions dissipate as Catra approaches her, both arms outstretched. And when they wrap around her, Adora melts into the embrace. She cannot help the tears that begin to pour from her eyes, and she buries her face in Catra’s neck.

“Catra,” she sobs in relief, despite knowing that it’s not real. Despite knowing that Catra is gone, completely gone, and that this hologram intends only to lead her astray—to keep her from delivering the Failsafe. 

“Stay with me,” Catra whispers, a hand rising to cup Adora’s jaw. 

And maybe this was what Catra meant, in Adora’s hallucination. That this projection...it’s not real. That she shouldn’t listen to it. 

“I can’t,” says Adora, swallowing tears all the while. She takes a shaking step back, disentangling herself from the hologram. It flickers as she moves away from it. “Not yet, anyway.”

Catra’s face crumbles into something devastated—something that doesn’t belong in this memory, and Adora nearly crumbles right alongside her. 

“I miss you,” Adora chokes out. She can hear Shadow Weaver calling to her, somewhere in the distance. A reminder of what she needs to do. “And I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

Adora turns around. From her periphery, she sees the projection of Catra flicker into darkness. Gone yet again. 

But not for long. Not for Adora, anyway.

* * *

When Catra opens her eyes, she’s standing outside the Crystal Castle. Tall and crystalline, same as ever, but covered in creeping tree roots and vines. 

The first thing she does is squat in the grass, dropping to one knee so she can run her hands over the ground. She is relieved to feel the weeds and stones spilling between her fingers, real and rough in texture—just as they’re supposed to be. 

So she has a physical presence here. But can she be heard…?

Catra stands and calls, at the top of her lungs, the name that sits in her throat at all times since she found herself trapped here, in the plane between worlds...and all the vicious illusions it contains.

“Adora!” she screams, spinning around to view all directions. She hopes that Adora hasn’t arrived yet, that she hasn’t gone inside. “Adora! Are you here?”

So she can be heard. Catra supposes that’s one less thing to worry about. At the very least she can find Adora, tell her to stop before she sacrifices herself for nothing—

“You’re _too_ late,” a voice sing-songs from somewhere above her. 

Catra looks up. And there, draped casually across one of the hefty vines that climbs the face of the castle, is Chasm. Her white hair flowing in the modest breeze, her cloak hanging long and loose in the air. 

“Though I’ll admit,” Chasm continues lightly, “I’ve never had someone willingly fall back into one of my illusions.” She chuckles and taps a finger to her chin. “You must really love her. Your Adora. Sweet, heroic, _stupid_ Adora.”

“Let her go!” Catra yells up to her. “Or I’ll–”

“You’ll what?” Chasm asks, utterly gleeful in her disbelief and amusement. “This is my world, Catra. _Mine_. You can’t do anything to me. So tell me... why should I let her go? Do you really think I’m going to give up my chance to control the mighty She-Ra? To crush whole planets in her hands?” She smirks. “Soon-to-be _my_ hands.”

Catra jumps as Chasm evaporates from the vine, then rematerializes directly beside her. A hand trails across the back of Catra’s shoulder, forcing her to hiss and swipe blindly with a claw—but Chasm disappears again just as quickly, a laugh echoing through the surrounding trees as she goes. 

“Now...let me guess…” Chasm’s disembodied voice taunts from nowhere at all. “Angella managed to perform one of my spells? Is that how you got here?”

Catra doesn’t answer, only continues to let her head swivel from side to side, searching for the source of Chasm’s voice. 

“I didn’t think the old woman had it in her,” Chasm remarks. “But then again...I didn’t think you had it in you, either.”

Catra turns once more, and yelps as she suddenly finds herself face to face with Chasm’s blank eyes and grinning mouth. 

“You’d best listen closely, Catra,” Chasm says. “There is no stopping this, no matter how hard you may try. Adora is going to die, and you will watch. And then, once I have what’s left of her—” 

Slowly, Chasm seems to grow in size, and she begins to loom over Catra from an enormous height. 

“I will take She-Ra’s hands and crush you—and the rest of the universe—to dust. But—”

Her wicked smile fades slightly, and Chasm leans down with an absurdly large hand to gently brush a hair from Catra’s face. “If you leave now…if you cease to pester me...perhaps I will let you live. Perhaps I could give you something better and easier than living.” 

Catra stares at her, immobilized with fear. With confusion. 

“I could trap you in a wonderful dream, if that’s what you want,” Chasm explains. “Give you Adora forever and ever, in the happiest place you can think of. Wouldn’t that be better than this? This fruitless attempt to save what’s already beyond saving—”

“But it wouldn’t be her,” Catra hisses. “Do you really think I’d let you kill her just so I can have an illusion of her instead—?”

“I promise I’ll make her convincing,” Chasm laughs. “That is my speciality, after all. You’ll forget that you’re even in a dream at all–”

“No thanks,” Catra interrupts, and takes a confident step forward. “If you’re trying to negotiate at all, that means that I have a chance. That you’re afraid that I’ll get through to her—”

Chasm releases an animalistic snarl, straightening in a vicious, stilted motion. Her arms rise, her hands poised as if ready to claw Catra’s eyes out. “I am afraid of nothing, little fool. I practically _invented_ fear—”

“Good,” says Catra, taking another step. Her hands curl into fists. “Then you’ll know that I’m not afraid to do whatever it takes to save Adora.” A smirk. “And I’m not afraid of illusions, either. Not anymore. They can’t hurt me unless I believe they can—and neither can you.”

Chasm’s lips curl back from her teeth. With a roar, she sends her hands flinging down—right toward Catra, as if to smash her to pieces. But Catra doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. And when Chasm tries to hit her—touch her at all—her hands dissolve at the spot where Catra stands. 

Catra just keeps smiling. 

Chasm releases another scream of outrage, lifting and staring at her hands—which reform as they pull away from her, from Catra.

“It doesn’t matter,” Chasm grits out. “ _You_ don’t matter. You’re not the one I need to convince. In fact...” The wicked grin returns. “Why don’t we speed things up a little?”

Chasm snaps her fingers. And suddenly, like a light switch has been flipped, the world is doused in green light. A light that Catra recognizes from many years ago, when Horde Prime pumped his virus into the glowing magic beneath Etheria. 

And that’s where the light is emanating from now. There are veins of green spreading from some distant spot, approaching the castle, most likely seeping into the corridors below too. The corridors leading to the Heart. 

Adora will think that Horde Prime is about to take control. She’ll rush forward, desperate to destroy the Heart before he gains access to it—

“You’ll never make it in time,” Chasm says. “And even if you do, you’ll never convince her. She fully believes that this is real and you? You’re _dead.”_

And then, with another smattering of vicious laughter, Chasm dissipates before Catra’s eyes. 

Catra doesn’t waste another moment. She scrambles forward, surging into the castle, into the hole that leads to the Heart below, to Adora, to Catra’s only chance to stop all of this—

But Chasm’s laughter seems to follow her with every step. 

* * *

As Adora and Shadow Weaver continue forward, a sharp flare cuts into their vision. A bright blue light. Their surroundings morph. Change. Transform into a sight that Adora knows well—especially now that she has lived it twice. 

Up ahead, she sees the sword—the weapon created by the First Ones, the blade that Adora shattered. It sits, patient and idle; plunged deep into the tree roots of the Whispering Woods. Waiting for Adora’s hands to take, to hold, to _carry_. 

She knows that the castle is projecting her memories again, just as it did the first time. Just as it did a few moments before, when Adora saw that heartbreaking projection of Catra. 

She wishes that it would just disappear. That their path could be left clear, unobstructed by all these horrific visions of her past. Adora is done with it. She’s done with reliving her past. She just wants to be done, done, _done_ , free of all of this–

There’s a cracking sound, suddenly. The projection shimmers—flickers. And then, with an explosiveness that draws a gasp from Adora’s throat, the entire projection _shatters,_ pixelating into a thousand squares of color as it flies apart. 

Adora and Shadow Weaver are left standing exactly where they expect to be, in the hallway leading to the Heart. Bathed in the half-darkness of the underground, the bright light from the sword entirely disappeared. 

The holograms… they seem to have glitched, for some reason. Like something has interfered with their programming. 

And then, when the hallway begins to turn a sickly shade of green...and Adora immediately realizes that something must have gone wrong. 

Horde Prime. This could only be Prime infecting the Heart—just like the first time. 

But...but it doesn’t make _sense_. She arrived at the Heart days before she did the first time. Days! And Prime shouldn’t even know that she has the Failsafe yet. She’s been so calculating, so discreet, and with her knowledge of the future, she had every advantage—

“No,” she murmurs, staring open-mouthed as circuits of green light begin tracing their way along the walls. The floors. The ceilings. They’re everywhere. These green, glowing, inevitable vines of color that seek to ensnare and strangle the whole planet. 

She’s their victim too. They trap her like prison bars because truly, there can be no choice for Adora now. No delays. 

“We must hurry,” Shadow Weaver says, prodding Adora forward. She echoes the panic that rages in Adora’s mind. “Prime must have learned of our plan.”

“But how?” Adora asks. “No one knew. Not even my friends—”

“He must have surveillance of some sort,” Shadow Weaver supplies quickly—frantically. “We have no time to waste dwelling on it. We must act now. Let’s go–”

Adora can’t argue. There’s no time to do that—to argue, to _think_. She can only begin to run, sprinting her way down the hallway with Shadow Weaver following close behind. 

* * *

“Adora!” 

That’s all Catra does. She screams Adora’s name as loud as her lungs allow, runs as fast as her legs can move. 

Her lungs and legs burn with the effort, but she wills the sensation away. It’s not real. None of the pain in this place is real. The only real thing in this entire illusion is Adora’s mind, so trapped, so determined to sacrifice herself at this false version of the Heart of Etheria. 

And so Catra _will_ do this. She will reach Adora in time. 

“...Catra?” a voice whimpers. 

Every inch of her freezes—every muscle in her limbs, every droplet of blood in her veins. She feels like one of Frosta’s ice sculptures on the brink of shattering. 

“Catra…” the voice whimpers again, from somewhere behind her. “Is that really you?”

Catra knows that voice. It’s Adora. Adora’s voice. But it can’t...it can’t be _this_ easy, can it?

Slowly, with stilted, hesitant breaths, Catra turns her head. Her face splits into a grin, she is so excited to see Adora again, to save her, to free her from this place—

But it’s not Adora. Or at least, it’s not Adora as she expects. 

There’s a body curled up on the floor, propped against one of the glowing green walls. Catra can’t see much at first. Just a messy shock of blonde hair, matted with dark red stains. A white shirt torn all across the stomach and chest.

But those…those are _claw marks_ , Catra realizes. Gruesome ones, oozing with blood. 

And as she looks more closely at the shirt—at her own hands—she sees that marks match the shape and breadth of Catra’s own claws. 

Catra’s breath catches. She can’t move. Can’t look away. 

The face tips upward. A face streaked with blood and tears, a pair of eyes so filled with heartbreak and betrayal that Catra nearly collapses to her knees at the sight of them. 

“Catra,” Adora sobs. “Why did you do this to me?”

“I…” Catra stammers, eyes pulled wide. She outstretches a hand, wanting to help her, to comfort her, but guilt pushes her back like a physical force. If those really _are_ her claw marks…if she really did this to Adora, somehow… 

Catra shakes her head. “But I didn’t—”

“I loved you,” Adora says, still crying. Nearly shrieking in agony. She slides further down the wall, lying sprawled on her back now, an arm curled around her stomach. “I loved you, Catra. I loved you so much, and you tried to hurt me. To kill me—”

Catra tries to blink away tears of her own. “I know,” Catra says. “I know and I’m sorry, you know that. I’m so, so sorry—”

No. Wait. 

Catra shuts her eyes tight. This doesn’t make sense. Adora isn’t supposed to be here. She’s heading to the Heart. _Chasm_ is leading her to the Heart—

“You said you’d look out for me, Catra,” Adora cries. “I did everything I could to help you, to protect you, but all you’ve ever done is hurt me—”

“Enough!” Catra screams. Her hands fly to her head, claws digging sharply into her scalp. Her eyes shoot open so that she can stare this...this... _nightmare_ of Adora in the eye. Because that’s what this is. A nightmare. An illusion.

A distraction.

“You’re not real,” Catra hisses, taking a step back. “You’re not real—and you’re not going to stop me, Chasm.”

Chasm-Adora stops pretending to cryand instead settles for a grin. _Chasm’s_ grin, wicked and cruel. 

“Oh, but I have plenty more,” Adora says, in Chasm’s voice. “And all the time in the world. Adora, on the other hand…”

Chasm-Adora evaporates into wisps of red vapor, but her voice continues to echo down the hallway. “I’m afraid she doesn’t have much time left at all...”

Catra shakes her head as though shaking herself from a trance, then spins around. Her headlong sprint starts up again, carrying her down that green-suffused hallway in an endless rhythm of frantic footfalls.

She can’t afford further delays.

_Adora_ can’t afford further delays. 

* * *

Adora holds out an arm to stop Shadow Weaver from moving forward.

“Hold on,” she cautions, craning her neck to get a better look at the path before them. The hallway ahead—it opens into a large cavern. One that Adora recognizes.

That’s where that creature attacked her the first time. The Guardian of the Heart. The mechanical monster placed here by none other than the First Ones themselves. That was how Horde Prime infected Adora with the virus that nearly killed her—through the creature’s venom. 

And this time, Catra won’t be able to save her if it attacks. 

“What is it?” Shadow Weaver demands. “Why have we stopped?” 

“In my timeline, this cavern contains this big monster _thing_. It nearly kills me. And when you try to protect us from it…”

Adora trails off. It’s not exactly easy to tell a person how they die—even if that person is as awful as Shadow Weaver. 

“Well,” Shadow Weaver says. “I don’t see anything, least of all a large monster. Do you?”

“Well, no,” Adora concedes. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. It’s _supposed_ to be there. That’s what happened last time, anyway—”

Shadow Weaver scoffs in annoyance and crosses her arms. “Then turn into She-Ra, challenge the creature and be done with it.”

Adora sets her jaw and glares at her in fury. One thing is for sure— no one gives pep talks quite like Shadow Weaver does. 

“Not yet,” Adora repeats. 

Shadow Weaver makes an irritated, disappointed noise. “So it is true. You can’t transform, can you?”

Adora doesn’t answer. Only clenches her fists at her sides. 

“So what?” Shadow Weaver demands. “Did you bring me down here to die alongside you?”

“No,” says Adora quickly. “I brought you down here because it’ll restore your magic—being so close to the Heart. You’ll be more powerful than you ever were. And once I’m at the Heart and you have your magic, you can go. Leave me here.”

“And why would you want me to have so much power?” Shadow Weaver says, voice laden with suspicion. “I thought you don’t trust me.” 

“Magic is Horde Prime’s weakness, remember? And we made a promise. You’d kill Horde Prime when this is all over.”

“You could have just as easily asked one of your friends to serve the role of Horde Prime’s executioner.”

“My friends,” Adora says, her eyes affixing themselves to the floor, “don’t know when to make sacrifices. But you do. You always have. When I’m gone…” Adora swallows and presses her back against the wall to steady herself. “I want you to do whatever it takes to make sure he’s destroyed. Don’t hurt innocent people but...” Adora sighs. “I need to know that he’ll be gone. I need to know that he’s going to pay. And you? You always knew how to do that—how to make people pay.” 

“It’s something you hate me for,” Shadow Weaver remarks. 

Adora doesn’t reply to that. It’s costing too much of her to simply do this—to give Shadow Weaver any shred of power. But if Adora has to die, she wants Horde Prime to suffer once she’s gone. It’s only fair. 

Adora looks across the cavern, at the matching hallway on the other side. She still sees and hears nothing from within the cavern. Confused, Adora creeps closer to the end of their hallway. She glances around—examining the entire space from end to end—but finds nothing. “I guess you’re right,” she says, incredulous. “The monster just...doesn’t seem to be here?” 

Adora steps out into the cavern, expecting the Guardian to erupt from some hidden space. A crevice beneath the ground, or a perch on the ceiling. Surely, it must be here. Surely, it will attack her to protect the Heart, just like it did the first time. 

But it doesn’t. There’s nothing here. The cavern is completely empty. And the next hallway waits patiently for them on the other side. 

It’s so strange—knowing so much about the future, yet knowing nothing at all. Technically, the Guardian was supposed to attack Adora while she spoke with Mara’s projection. But as far as she can tell, Horde Prime’s sudden assault on the planet interrupted the castle’s programming, and the projections seem to have glitched out. 

And now...now the Guardian is simply _gone_. 

She supposes it’s possible. This timeline is different from her own. Perhaps Horde Prime’s virus hasn’t reached the Guardian yet, so it lies dormant in some other corridor. 

But still...it’s happening so quickly. Without the threat of the Guardian, nothing stands in her way. The Heart is at the end of that hallway, and Adora knows that it’s not long to walk. 

She shouldn’t feel so disappointed. This journey—it’s been easier than she could have hoped for. But that doesn’t change the fact that these are the last moments of her life, and it’s like they’re playing on fast-forward. 

Shadow Weaver also strides into the room. She too glances around and discovers no evident threat, no looming monster. Just an empty cavern. 

“Well,” Shadow Weaver says, curling a gnarled hand around Adora’s wrist. “We shouldn’t wait around for it to arrive. Let’s consider ourselves lucky and carry on.”

She tugs Adora forward, toward the hallway, and Adora doesn’t argue or resist. She can’t. Shadow Weaver is right—they are lucky to find the Guardian absent. And victory is only steps ahead of them. 

But... _why_ does it feel so wrong?

* * *

Catra keeps running. 

But Chasm isn’t finished trying to stop her. Not by any means. 

It would be easier, Catra thinks, if Chasm wasn’t so damn tricky. She uses her powers of illusion to transform the corridors surrounding Catra into a veritable labyrinth. Chasm changes the paths ahead of her— putting turns where there shouldn’t be, opening gaps in the ground, materializing dead ends directly in front of Catra’s face. 

But Catra won’t let it distract her. She anticipated that Chasm might try to trick her like this. After all, Chasm has forced Catra to travel in circles before—in the not-quite-past. In those fake versions of the Whispering Woods and Horde Prime’s flagship. 

But this is a place that Catra has been before. This place...it changed Catra’s life. She remembers frantically searching these corridors for Adora, and later, emerging from them after sharing that first kiss with her. 

The path to and from the Heart...it’s practically burned into her memory. And Chasm can’t make her forget which way to go. That’s the one thing Chasm was never able to do—she was never able to alter their memories. Only what they were currently experiencing. 

What they were currently experiencing...so long as they believed it. 

So Catra ignores what she sees, and instead trusts what she remembers from her _real life_ , rather than this twisted dream world. She pictures the actual path in her head. There should be a turn there, right there, even though there’s a wall in its place.

It’s a strange sensation, running straight into a wall. Catra half-expects to have her face flattened and crushed against its surface, her nose and jawbones shattered into fragments—

But that’s not what happens. Not at all. 

It dissolves around her, just like Chasm’s hands did when they tried to smash Catra into pieces. 

She sprints straight through the wall, passing through a layer of solid stone...and falls, face-first, back into that plane of nonexistence. The one from Chasm’s version of inside the portal.

Catra floats, eyes wide in astonishment. She doesn’t understand. She didn’t pass through any portal—

But then realizes what it means—why she’s here. 

Chasm doesn’t know what it’s like to be inside a wall. She doesn’t even know what lies _beyond_ the walls of those corridors. Chasm hasn’t left the plane between worlds in millenia. How could she possibly know what Etheria’s underground looks like? 

She can’t. She can’t know, and Catra certainly doesn’t. And without that knowledge, without that memory...Chasm can’t render a proper illusion. 

This is what happens when there are no memories to use, Catra realizes. Chasm’s whole illusion—it’s built entirely off what her victims know and remember. Sure, she can overlay and embellish a little—change what people say, or how they act, or conjure gruesome images based on her victims’ nightmares. But when those victims go somewhere with absolutely no foundation within their memories, none at all...they end up here. A plane of darkness. Of nothingness. 

The unstructured gap in the illusion. 

But if Catra can pass through walls...if the illusion is only real so long as she believes it…

What else can she do? Where else can she go, unlimited by the laws of physics that don’t actually exist here? 

She has only begun to consider the possibilities when a figure materializes directly in front of Catra. At first, she can’t make out its appearance. It just looks like a splotch of dark red. 

But then it draws closer, and Catra’s lungs fill with concrete. 

It’s Shadow Weaver, looming enormous and dangerous, her gnarled hands reaching out for Catra’s shoulders. Tendrils of darkness and electricity writhe all around her, threatening to snap and strike at Catra like snakes. 

The fear is visceral, irrepressible. Catra turns to flee, to escape the punishment that Shadow Weaver’s presence surely promises her—

—but immediately finds herself dropping into a pool of glowing green liquid. It, too, is sizzling—crackling with electricity, hissing in its acridity and corrosiveness. For a moment, she can only tumble through the liquid. Trapped. Surrounded. _Drowning._

She glances up. And standing above her, through the haze of green, is Horde Prime himself. Grinning in response to her pain and fear and misery. 

_Fear and misery_. 

No. This is Chasm, not Horde Prime. Chasm, not Shadow Weaver. This is _Chasm_ trying to trick her, trying to distract her. Trying to keep her from saving Adora. 

But it’s not real. It’s _not_ real.

....and Catra _will_ reach Adora in time. 

With a cry, Catra throws out her arms and swipes them to the side. The green water splits—parting around her body—and begins to dissolve around her. Dissipating, disappearing. Horde Prime, too, begins to disappear. Dissolving with the rest of the water, almost like he never existed beyond the lens of the liquid. 

Now free from the water, Catra turns to Shadow Weaver—still radiating all that magical, shadowy power. Her hands are still reaching for Catra’s shoulders. Or worse, maybe her throat…

But Catra straightens her shoulders and tips up her chin. 

“You don’t scare me, Chasm!” she screams, the words raw and scraped as they tear from her throat.

There’s a momentary pause. Shadow Weaver stops creeping forward. The electricity that surrounds her ceases, snapping and crackling into silence. 

And then, in Chasm’s voice, Shadow Weaver asks, “Are you so sure?”

And then Shadow Weaver is morphing—changing. Her body bubbling and transforming into something taller, broader. Something that ripples with muscles and hulks over Catra from an enormous height. 

Blood red eyes glare down at her, and a sword shimmers pale blue in a red-veined hand. There’s a mouth spread into a malicious smile—a mouth that Catra recognizes. A mouth that Catra has watched and kissed and brushed with her fingers a thousand times before. 

That smile… it doesn’t belong there. It doesn’t belong on Adora’s face. It’s too cruel, too bloodthirsty. 

But this is not the Adora that Catra knows. It’s She-Ra. It’s She-Ra, infected with the virus from the First Ones' disk. 

With a savage laugh, She-Ra swipes down with her sword—the arc of the blade clearly intended to cleave Catra’s head from her neck. Catra’s body reacts before her mind does, flinging her backward with a gasp. The sword misses her by a mere hair’s breadth. 

She is blindsided by her horror. Didn’t she risk breaking the future to keep this from happening? To keep Adora from getting infected?

“You did this to me,” She-Ra growls, then takes a lumbering step forward. “That’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it? To control me. To hurt me.”

“No!” Catra yells, flailing in her attempts to get away. “That’s not what I wanted, I swear—”

No. It’s not what she wanted. It was _never_ what she wanted, not really. She made mistakes, yes. Terrible, unforgivable ones. But she was hurt. She was _confused_. And that’s not an excuse, it never will be, but she’s trying. She’s trying to be better.

And she knows what she wants now, at least. All she wants is peace. To be with Adora, safe and happy. 

But that’s not what Chasm wants. It’s Chasm who wants to hurt and control Adora now. It’s Chasm who Catra needs to protect Adora from. 

Catra takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. And when she opens them, it’s not an infected She-Ra that stands before her. Not anymore. 

It’s Chasm herself—once again large and looming and floating in the air, her mouth twisted in displeasure. Even her blank eyes manage to convey a unique sort of hatred as they stare down at Catra. 

“Look at you,” Chasm says, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “Trying so hard to save your wife. To save the universe, even. So desperate to play the big hero.” She laughs without humor, endlessly derisive. “But it seems to me like you’ve forgotten something crucial—”

Chasm leans down, nearly pressing herself nose-to-nose with Catra. And when she speaks, her voice booms and echoes like thunder. “You’re the villain of this story, Catra. You always have been. And all of this? It’s _your_ fault.”

No. Catra turns away, refusing to listen. Chasm is just trying to distract her. That’s all she’s ever tried to do here, in this dreamworld. 

She returns to that idea from before. The laws of physics...they don’t exist here. Nothing proves that more than where Catra stands—floats—right now. In a place devoid of gravity and ground, she is healthy and intact despite the void around her. 

Chasm swoops in front of her, demanding her attention. “Do you think I’m lying?”

Catra turns again, but Chasm just keeps following her. With every movement Catra makes, Chasm whizzes into her line of sight—flying into her face like some enormous, unkillable gnat. 

“Here. Let me prove it to you.”

Chasm trails her fingers through the darkness, colors spilling from her fingers. Catra has seen this trick before. Chasm is trying to show her something—draw some window into the world beyond this fake, illusory one.

But this time she draws several windows in the lightless air. Windows to the past, to Catra’s memories. In the first one, she sees herself pulling the switch that opened the portal. She smirked as she did it. Adora stared at her in disbelief, in fear, in _outrage_. 

“If you hadn’t opened the portal, Angella wouldn’t have sacrificed herself. She never would have been sent here, to my prison.”

In the second window of color, Catra sees Angella. Angella, healthy and glowing with magic. Angella, kissing Adora’s forehead before flying up to the portal in the sky. 

“And if Angella wasn’t sent here—” Chasm continues, gesturing to the third window. 

She sees She-Ra smiling softly as her hand pulls out of Catra’s, her body framed by the light of Entrapta’s portal. 

“Adora wouldn’t have gone in after her,” Chasm says gleefully. “She never would’ve ended up here, at my mercy.”

Catra watches in horror as Adora turns and steps into the portal. She wants to scream for her to _stop_ , to stay on Etheria where it’s safe—

But no. There’s no changing the past, Catra tells herself. Catra knows that better than anyone now. She needs to focus—

“Face it, Catra,” Chasm laughs. “The wife you’re trying to save? You got her into this mess in the first place. You’re the reason she had to relive her whole awful past. And you’re the reason why she’s going to die _right_ _now_.”

Catra glares up at her. At Chasm. 

She hates that Chasm is right. She hates that one mistake from years ago—opening the portal—is the root cause of all of this. It isn’t like she hasn’t tried to repent. It’s not like she didn’t try to rescue Angella in Adora’s place—Adora insisted that it had to be She-Ra. Besides, how could they have possibly known about Chasm? 

“So what if it’s my fault?” Catra grits out. “All that matters is that I make it right.”

“Why? So you can keep making it right, forever and ever? Always apologizing for mistakes you can never fix? Constantly trying to save a wife who’s determined to die anyway? She’ll never listen. She’ll never learn. She’ll do anything to die a hero—including leave you.” 

Catra’s fists clench at her sides. 

“But there’s a way out,” Chasm continues, softening her voice. “My offer still stands. I can give you a world where you never pulled the switch. A world where you never did anything wrong. A world where Shadow Weaver and Horde Prime and all those others never hurt you. A world where you have Adora forever, without the risk of some selfless sacrifice taking her from you.” The look she gives Catra now seems genuinely pitying. “Isn’t that better than paying for your mistakes over and over again?”

Catra pauses for a moment, as though considering.

And then gives a derisive laugh to rival Chasm’s own. 

For several moments, Chasm merely floats there, staring at Catra’s laughter in indignant belief. She doesn’t understand. She can’t believe that Catra has the _audacity_ to laugh at her, and that makes it all the more hilarious. 

And then, finally—in a stilted, frigid voice—Chasm asks:

“What’s so amusing?”

“Come on,” Catra says. “We both know you can’t imagine a world without my mistakes. You can't imagine it any better than I can. That’s your weakness. You can’t create illusions of things you haven’t seen. And besides...I wouldn’t _want_ you to.”

A strange confidence floods through her, then. She remembers how she escaped this plane of darkness the first time. Some sort of gash was cut into the air—one that revealed the illusion beyond, and brought her back to that fake-Etheria. 

Chasm might have done that for her, to keep their past going according to plan. But Catra also wanted so badly to escape...she wonders if she caused that. If she opened the gap that allowed her to return to the main illusion. 

And then, when she first confronted Chasm and willed herself to wake, she opened fissures all throughout this plane. Fissures that spilled bright light, and eventually returned her to consciousness. There’s no denying it in that case—those, Catra _definitely_ caused. 

And maybe she can do it again. 

Catra inhales deeply and steps forward. Toward her—toward Chasm.

“My mistakes? My pain?” Catra says, gesturing to herself. “Those things made me who I am. I wouldn’t be _me_ if I didn’t regret them. I couldn’t have saved the universe, or ended up with Adora without them. So no—” Catra swipes a dismissive hand through the air. “I don’t want your stupid deal. I don’t want to change the past. I want to save my wife. And I want to watch _you_ lose.”

Catra extends her claws. Extends her claws, and _lunges_ forward. 

She swipes her claws through Chasm, through the air. This is her mind, after all. She can break as much as she likes. Go wherever she wants, so long as she believes and accepts that she can. 

And there’s only one place she wants to go—to Adora. To the Heart. And nothing is going to stop her. Not Catra’s guilt, not this plane of darkness, and certainly _not_ Chasm _._

Chasm screeches as a bright white gash forms around Catra’s claws. And then, like she’s pulling fabric apart at the seams, Catra uses those claws to yank the gap wider. Yanking and yanking until the gap is wide enough for a body to pass through. 

Catra’s body. 

Chasm evaporates into her signature red vapor—little wisps that rupture in all directions—but her voice continues to echo throughout the darkness. The sound slithers into Catra’s ears, crawling like some sort of insect, and she shudders. 

“You’ll never convince her,” Chasm hisses. “She’s out of time. And once I have She-Ra, I’ll break you into pieces—”

“Enough!” Catra calls to the darkness. “You don’t get a say in our future. You never did.”

And then Catra dives through the gap, into the illusion beyond. 

_The Heart_ , she thinks. _I want to go to the Heart_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't hurt me this chapter was already 8k words...i promise you'll get a reunion next chapter.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter brought in NEARLY 70 COMMENTS, which is amazing!! We're almost done. Just one chapter after this!
> 
> That being said, this is most definitely the climax of the story. So if you haven't commented yet, now would be the time to! I have poured months of planning, writing, and editing into this fic, so please please please give me ANY feedback you have—comments, kudos, whatever! If you hated this fic, tell me why. If you loved it, also tell me why! I am desperate for ways to improve. 
> 
> Just as a warning, **Shadow Weaver is especially awful in this chapter**. So just be prepared for that. 
> 
> Well. I won't distract you any longer. Here's Chapter 14.
> 
> (Try not to cry.)

From the corner of her eye, Adora sees Shadow Weaver’s magic return to her. 

Her limp hair begins to rise above her head, flowing and rippling in a nonexistent wind. And there, all around her, appears an aura of dark purple fire—flames that flicker and blaze in the underlit hallway. Though such fire only seems to swallow the meager light that surrounds them, rather than add to it. 

Shadow Weaver gasps slightly and stares at her hands. It seems she’s also surprised to find so much power flooding her veins. A power she likely thought she’d never hold again. 

Adora once swore that she’d keep Shadow Weaver from ever gaining power like this. That was supposed to be Shadow Weaver’s punishment—a consequence for the cruelties she inflicted on Catra and Adora and so many others over the years. 

She wishes she could keep that oath now. But it’s no use, none at all. Within a few minutes, Adora won’t be able to keep anyone from doing anything. 

And besides...what she said earlier is true. She knows that Shadow Weaver won’t let Horde Prime take over. She’ll do whatever is necessary to defeat him, destroy him. And that’s the only way that Adora will be able to rest easy, when this is all over—by knowing that Horde Prime will suffer as much pain as Catra did. 

Catra. Who died alone, and in pain. 

And Adora will likely do the same, soon enough. 

They continue walking down the hallway, drawing closer and closer to the Heart. It pulses bright neon directly ahead of her. The Failsafe on Adora’s chest seems to grow warmer with every step, like it craves to be united with the very thing it seeks to destroy. Like it wants the lights of the Failsafe and the Heart to be combined, then shattered apart. 

They reach the end of the passage. A step away, the hallway opens into a long platform suspended just below the thrumming core of the planet. 

Adora turns to Shadow Weaver. “Well. We made it.”

“We did.”

The words are filled with expectation on both sides. Adora expects Shadow Weaver to retreat now—to return to the rest of the rebels. And what a twist in history it will be, she thinks, for Shadow Weaver to live while Adora dies. 

“You can leave now,” Adora tells her. “You have your magic. I have my mission. I can do this last part on my own.”

Adora turns back around, prepared to continue onward to the platform, but she notices Shadow Weaver following close behind. 

“Did you hear what I said?” Adora demands, whirling around—features pulled together in indignation. These are Adora’s last moments of life, for Etheria’s sake. Shadow Weaver could at least have the decency to _pretend_ to listen to her requests. 

“I would prefer to stay,” Shadow Weaver says. 

Adora scoffs. “You want to die alongside me?”

“No,” says Shadow Weaver. “But I will stay right until the Failsafe is delivered. You could likely use some company.” 

Adora’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

Shadow Weaver’s voice softens a shade, to the comforting tone she often used during Adora’s childhood, when Adora found herself frightened of nameless, nonexistent monsters. 

“No one should have to die completely alone,” Shadow Weaver tells her gently. 

And it was that gentle voice that kept Adora from noticing the monster directly in front of her. 

At first, Adora wants to yell that she doesn’t want Shadow Weaver here—that she wants Shadow Weaver to go, to leave her alone. That she would prefer to die alone than with Shadow Weaver by her side. 

But somehow, she just can’t manage it. It’s true, what Shadow Weaver said. Adora doesn’t want to die alone. She wishes that Catra was here, more than anything. Or Glimmer or Bow or any of the other princesses. But they’re not. _They’re not_. And if Shadow Weaver is all she has now, it will have to be good enough. 

So, slowly, Adora begins to nod. She continues to nod as she spins around yet again, foot raised to carry her forward. She takes the step toward it—toward the Heart. And then another. And another. The air feels like a physical mass around her, so humming with magic and energy, the kind that seems to singe and simmer Adora’s skin. 

It’s overwhelming. Frightening. If this atmospheric energy is just the residual energy of the Heart...how will it feel when the full magic of the Heart pours into Adora’s very human body without She-Ra to protect her? 

It will likely incinerate her on the spot, she thinks. The Heart. That much magic...it should burn her away almost instantly. And incineration that quick must be _largely_ painless, right?

That’s what Adora wants, after all. Something quick and painless. It’s better than Catra got, anyway. Catra, who was tortured to death by Horde Prime. Who died alone and in pain without a single soul to comfort her, not even Shadow Weaver—

“Adora!” a voice calls. 

Adora’s thoughts short-circuit. That voice. Is that—?

Her head whirls around, searching for the source of the noise. But there’s nothing. No one but Shadow Weaver. 

She could’ve sworn…

Shadow Weaver glares at her. “What are you waiting for?” she demands. “The Heart is right there. Continue forward, and deliver the Failsafe!”

Adora shakes her head. She’s likely just imagining things. Things she’d like to hear, but no longer can. 

Adora turns back around, and takes her next set of steps. She’s so close now, almost standing below the Heart. 

“Adora!” the voice calls again. “Don’t do it!” 

Her head whirls once more. That voice...it sounds like….

But then, at the other end of the platform—the one closest to the corridor that led Adora here—something strange happens. The air seems to ripple, almost. The images beyond grow pinched, distorted. Twisting and squeezing together, almost like they’re drawn on fabric that’s being pulled backward.

And then, suddenly, there’s something else—a bright white light, spilling through a thin gash in the air. It grows and grows—nearly blinding Adora, it is so bright, and she is forced to shield her eyes with a hand. 

Finally, when the light dies slightly, Adora lowers her hand just enough to see _something_ tumble from out of the opening. It flails for a moment—dropping to the ground with a graceless clatter and a stream of curses. 

But Adora knows those curses. She _knows_ that voice. 

The white light suddenly disappears—the gash closing and sealing itself as though sutured by a healer. And there, on the floor, left at the foot of where the light once hung is….

“ _Catra_?”

* * *

Catra staggers, _scrambles_ to her feet. She’s lucky nothing can really hurt her here—otherwise, she’d have a pretty brutal bruise on her tailbone from that fall. She suspects she’ll need more practice if she’s going to continue cutting holes through the fabric of dreamworlds. 

“ _Catra_?” she hears a voice gasp. 

She looks up. 

And there, directly in front of her, is Adora—the Failsafe blazing an almost blinding blue from its spot on Adora’s chest. 

Adora. Adora, _finally_. 

Adora, who sees her. Who will hear her, if she speaks. Who gapes at Catra, open-mouthed with shock, she is so stunned to see Catra alive and well and _here_.

Their eyes connect like the opposite ends of an electrical current. And despite the circumstances, Catra can’t help but smile broadly at her. 

“Hey, Adora.”

A pair of tears squeeze themselves from Adora’s eyes. She doesn’t move forward. She doesn’t wrap Catra in a hug in the way that Catra wants her to. She merely stands there, utterly frozen with disbelief, a hand clutching at her chest to ground herself. 

“How are you... _what_ are you—?” Adora stammers. 

Catra is about to answer, already struggling to find the right words to explain. How can she even begin to make their circumstances sound the least bit sane—?

But she doesn’t get the chance. Not before another voice interrupts, halfway chuckling as it says, “Isn’t it obvious?”

It’s almost physically painful to tear her gaze from Adora’s, but Catra knows that voice—knows that it can’t be trusted. And it especially can’t be trusted now, with Chasm controlling every word that it says. 

Shadow Weaver. Shadow Weaver is here, approaching Catra with both hands clasped behind her back. She leans forward, examining Catra closely—like Catra some sort of scientific experiment, rather than a living, breathing person.

If Chasm has done one thing well...it’s this realistically horrifying vision of Shadow Weaver. Catra nearly shudders when she draws too close. 

“It’s a trick,” Shadow Weaver insists, staring directly at Catra as she speaks the words. “Horde Prime has seized control of the Castle’s holographic capabilities. He’s trying to stall you—distract you. Projecting your memories to keep you from delivering the Failsafe.”

There’s a short pause as Catra struggles to process Shadow Weaver’s words, and Adora considers them. 

Catra, a hologram? No. No way. Everything else here is fake, yes, but not...not _Catra_. Surely, Adora must realize that. 

“What?” Catra demands, shaking her head. “No, I’m not—”

But she can already see the realization dawning on Adora’s face. 

Adora believes her. She _believes_ Shadow Weaver. Which means that she believes Chasm, and not Catra. 

More tears track down Adora’s cheeks. She sniffs, wiping the sleeve of her jacket across her eyes. The look she gives Catra is utterly disgusted, and Catra nearly winces under the severity of her gaze. 

“Make sure he pays for this,” Adora says–to Shadow Weaver—and points to Catra on the last word. Her voice is nearly a hiss, she sounds so furious. “He doesn’t get to use _her_ against me. Not now, not ever again—”

_This_. Catra. Like Catra is a thing rather than a person. Adora really, truly believes that Catra is the projection, the illusion, and that Shadow Weaver and this surrounding world are real. 

But it’s not true. It’s _not_ true. In fact, it’s the exact opposite—

But then Adora begins to turn away, eyes affixed to the glowing Heart only a short distance away. “I’ve had enough,” she says, voice trembling and thick. She wraps both arms around her stomach. “I just...I want this to be over.”

Adora steps forward, toward the Heart. And then, with a shuddering sigh, she’s walking away from Catra. Away from Catra, and toward the Heart. Toward certain death—

Blood roars in Catra’s ears, loud as one of Mermista’s waves. She nearly blacks out from panic, she is so desperate in her scramble to follow Adora. She sprints—dropping to all fours, turning every stride into a lunge until she reaches her, reaches Adora.

She’s faster than Adora. It’s the only advantage Catra has ever had over her—being fast—and she overtakes Adora within moments. 

Catra springs directly into Adora’s path. Her movements are relentless, sudden, frantic, and Adora starts at the sight of her—a gasp slicing from her throat and a foot stumbling backward. She can’t seem to fathom that Catra is here. That Catra is so close, so real, so _alive._

Catra’s arms extend to the sides, creating a barrier in the same way Glimmer did, back before Catra entered the portal. Back before Catra found herself here, trapped in Chasm’s illusion.

“Stop!” Catra begs, her chest heaving. “You need to stop. _Please_ —”

Because she is real. Catra _is_ real, even this whole place isn’t.

“You need to listen to me, Adora,” Catra urges her. “You don’t need to do this. You don’t need to sacrifice yourself—”

For a moment, Adora merely stands there, staring at her. Her lips parted in a silent plea for...something. Something that Adora likely believes to be long gone, even though it’s standing right in front of her. 

Catra can’t stand it. She can’t stand the look on Adora’s face. The twisted, utterly heartbroken disbelief. The wretched, broken longing that seems to extinguish all light, all hope in Adora’s eyes. 

Adora scrunches up her eyes and clenches her fists. 

“You’re not real,” she murmurs, seemingly to herself at first. And then, louder, “You’re _not_ real.”

Adora reopens her eyes. They’re hardened with determination now, those eyes. Her whole body swerves like she intends to push Catra out of her way–

But Catra won’t let her. She _won’t_. 

Instead, she does the only thing she can. She reaches forward and snatches Adora’s hands from beside her waist, holding them captive—holding them steady between their bodies as she thumbs over the edges of Adora’s palms. 

Adora inhales sharply, eyes widening as they latch onto Catra’s hands—and her own hands within them. She stares like they’re doing something impossible: flying without wings, walking through fire, breathing underwater. But they’re not. They’re simply holding hands, same as they always have. 

Adora’s hands are shaking. Her whole body is shaking too, and she looks like she might collapse if Catra holds onto her for even a second longer. 

But Catra won’t do it. She won’t let go. Not for anything. 

“You’re wrong,” Catra says, her voice raw with desperation. She looks directly into Adora’s eyes, willing them to believe her. “I’m real, Adora. I’m the only real thing in this entire world. Everything else here, that’s the illusion—”

“You’re not making sense,” Adora says, nearly crying. “You...you’re _gone_. I lost you. I failed you—”

“You _didn’t_ lose me,” Catra emphasizes, clutching Adora’s hands ever-tighter. “You never have. I lost you, if anything. I woke up from the illusion, but you didn’t. And that’s what you need to do now, Adora. You need to wake up!”

“Don’t listen to her!” Shadow Weaver commands— _lies_ —from the end of the platform. “She’s trying to trick you! She wants to keep you from delivering the Failsafe!”

Adora tries to look back at her, at Shadow Weaver—but Catra clasps both hands around Adora’s face before she can. Framing it with her fingers, holding Adora’s head in place. She refuses to let anyone come between them now. Not Shadow Weaver, not Chasm, not even stubborn, oblivious Adora herself.

“You _need_ to listen to me,” Catra insists. “I am real, okay? Do you feel me holding you right now? I’m real!”

She can feel Adora trying to shake her head. Her face is crumbling, splintering into broken, devastated pieces between Catra’s hands. Catra can barely hold on, her fingers are so slippery with Adora’s tears. 

“They always feel real,” Adora sobs, her voice garbled by pain. “The projections. But they’re not. You’re not—”

“No. _No_. Listen. This place is the projection,” Catra tells her. “It was a projection all along. You and I—we never went back in time. She only made us believe that to keep us trapped—”

“She?” Adora asks. “Wha...who are you talking about?”

“Chasm,” Catra explains wildly. “It’s her. She did all this. She’s some sort of magical _thing_ who feeds off misery. She was feeding off us the whole time, and now she wants you to do this. To sacrifice yourself. And if you do, she’ll get She-Ra. She’ll get control of your body—”

“Chasm?” Adora echoes, uncomprehending. And again, she tries to shake her head. “You’re not making sense. You’re just… you’re trying to distract me—”

Her body jerks, trying to pull out of Catra’s grasp, but Catra won’t let her. She _won’t_. 

“ _Please_ ,” Catra begs. And she’s nearly sobbing now too, she can’t help it. She can’t let this happen, can’t watch this happen. “I’m not, I swear I’m not! I’m trying to save you, Adora. This is what she wants. She wants you to die—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Adora cries, her tears uncontrollable. “You’re not real. You’re gone, and I’m here, and the world is going to end if I don’t do this–”

“I’m _not_ gone!” Catra screams. She tugs Adora closer—presses their foreheads together. “But if you do this...you will be. You’ll be gone. Forever.”

Adora releases another convulsive sob. “But if the world ends, if Prime gets the Heart...I’ll be gone either way. And everyone will be too. This is the only way. The _only_ way to make sure that everyone is safe—”

Catra shakes her head against Adora’s. “No,” she says. “No. You’re wrong. This isn’t real. If you die now, it’ll be for nothing. Do you understand that, Adora? You’ll be dying for nothing!”

Adora recoils like she’s never heard anything more horrifying. “No,” she refuses, head thrashing. “No, I can’t believe that—”

“Think about it, Adora. Think long and hard. What part of this has ever made sense? Think about all the little changes we made. They should’ve added up—changed something—but they never did. And there were so many flaws in the illusion too. Entrapta and Razz not knowing about time travel, Light Hope not being able to read your memories…”

Catra jerks her head down, toward Adora’s intact clothes and body. “Even now, you managed to make it to the Heart completely unscathed. I mean…how does _that_ make sense? It nearly killed you last time. You could barely walk by the time you got here. But this time, you got here easily, didn’t you? Almost like the Heart _wanted_ you to be here.”

Adora just stares at her. She looks like a fish pulled from a river–her mouth opening and closing repeatedly as she tries to process and understand Catra’s words. 

Catra leans closer and presses a kiss to the corner of Adora’s mouth. Adora whimpers at the contact, her tears streaming all the more heavily. 

“This place _isn’t_ real,” Catra says. “We’ve been trapped in a dream ever since we went through the portal. There’s no time travel. There never was. And if you want me back...all you need to do is wake up.”

Adora keeps staring. Her eyes soften, looking at Catra. And Catra can see the cogs turning in her head, evaluating the truthfulness of Catra’s words. Surely she will realize that Catra is right. That this place is the illusion, and that Catra is real—

But then there’s a rumbling—an electrical, almost pixelating sound as green veins of light begin to extend from every side, spreading all throughout the cavern. 

Catra knows what this is. 

It’s Horde Prime’s virus—or the illusion of it. Horde Prime’s virus...and Chasm’s final ploy. The final factor she needs to force Adora to sacrifice herself. 

“We are out of time!” Shadow Weaver yells, right on cue. “Adora, if you don’t deliver the Failsafe now, everyone will die—”

Adora’s eyes flit frantically between Catra’s face and the green light that threatens to swallow the entire Heart. She still isn’t sure. She still doesn’t believe Catra’s words, and it’s still far too strong—this damned instinct to sacrifice herself for the greater good.

Chasm knows that too. It’s what she’s counting on, in fact.

“No!” Catra yells, clutching Adora’s cheeks even more tightly. “No one is going to die, Adora. I promise you. Right now, this isn’t about anyone else. This is about you. And if you do this, you _will_ die for nothing.”

A bolt of green electricity _explodes_ down from somewhere above, impaling the Heart. Infecting it, bathing the chamber in eerie green light. The sound of the energies crashing together—colliding and combining—is nearly deafening. 

Adora’s eyes glance between them. The Heart. Catra’s face. The Heart. Catra’s face again. An endless, panic-stricken cycle.

“What if you’re wrong?” Adora cries, her voice shrill with uncertainty. “What if I believe you, and you’re wrong? What if the Heart really does destroy everyone? It’ll be my fault—”

“No,” Catra murmurs. “It’s not. How could it be your fault, Adora? All you’ve ever tried to do is help people. _Save people_. So let me save you this time. Come back with me, to the real world—”

“Adora, enough of this!” Shadow Weaver screams. “Will you really let yourself get manipulated so easily?” 

At this, Adora cries even harder. Catra wraps her arms around her—around Adora—and sighs into her trembling shoulders. The Failsafe glows pale blue between their chests. 

“That was our mistake when we first woke up here,” Catra continues, murmuring against Adora’s jacket. “We believed that we had to save the future, even if it was at the cost of ourselves. But it was wrong. It was a _lie_. And we played her game exactly as she wanted. We let ourselves get trapped, get hurt...”

The Heart glows ever-brighter, ever-greener, but Catra just holds Adora close. She tips her head up and brushes her lips along the shell of Adora’s ear. 

“I need you to wake up,” Catra whispers into Adora’s ear, and tightens her hold. “The world will be okay, Adora. I promise you.”

Adora releases a strangled noise and leans into Catra. “I can’t,” she sobs. “I don’t know how. I want to believe you, but I don’t—”

“Enough of this!” snarls Shadow Weaver, from the end of the platform. “I will not let this _trick_ destroy Etheria—”

And then, before Catra can even wonder what she’s doing, Shadow Weaver engulfs herself in dark purple flames, the magic blazing and swelling around her. It nearly makes Catra stumble backward, she is so startled and terrified. She’s never seen Shadow Weaver so powerful before—not since the day she died. 

The thought distracts Catra, allowing her to be caught off guard as Shadow Weaver gathers a sphere of magic between her hands and— with a forceful push of her palms— _flings_ it at Catra and Adora both. 

Catra has just enough time to remember that the magic can’t hurt her—that it’s all just an illusion. And just as she thinks it, the magic passes harmlessly through her, leaving her immune and unhurt.

But Catra realizes too late—Adora still believes this is real. Adora isn’t immune to Shadow Weaver’s attack at all. 

A harsh, pained cry rips from Adora’s throat as the magic drives directly into Adora’s back, knocking her to the ground several feet away—the floor squealing as her body slides and tumbles across it. She nearly slides far enough to fall over the edge, into the steep drop beneath the platform. 

“Adora!” Catra screams, hand outstretched in her direction. She begins to sprint forward—

Shadow Weaver makes a _tsk-tsk_ sound. “I’ll have no more of your interference, _Catra_.”

Shadow Weaver swipes another hand in Catra’s direction, and with the movement, something else flings toward her. But Catra is prepared. Whatever it is, she won’t let it hurt her. It’s not real—

But the magic never touches her. That’s the strangest part. Instead it just stops there, in front of her—hovering for the briefest moments as Catra stares, wide-eyed. It’s another sort of sphere, she thinks. A sphere of dark magic, suspended in the air. 

She’s unprepared when it begins to _grow_. Flattening, expanding, tendrils of darkness creeping from its center. Catra gasps as the sphere curves around her, enclosing her between walls of impenetrable darkness. 

It’s everywhere. To her right, to her left—even directly above her. She’s been entirely cut off from the world— _illusion—_ around her _,_ with not even a sliver of light slipping through. 

She charges forward, trying to push her way out. She walked through a wall, after all—why can’t she walk through this? 

But when she moves, so does the darkness. It follows her every step, steadily encircling her body but never touching her. 

Chasm’s voice echoes quietly in her ear. “I might not be able to control what you feel, or what you do. But so long as you play in my world…I _can_ change what you see.”

And Catra can’t see her. She can’t see Adora. 

* * *

Adora’s ears are ringing. Her head pounds. Her spine aches. Her skin feels strangely tingly—almost like she’s taken another hit from Scorpia’s stinger, and now finds herself half-paralyzed. 

But it’s different, somehow. Scorpia’s stinger brought thick sleepiness—not painful, exactly, but overwhelming. This, on the other hand...this makes Adora feel like she’s been plunged into ice water and scorched by fire. At the same time, too. 

She inhales sharply, lungs stinging and sputtering all the while. One side of her face feels cold and creased–pressed against something smoothly solid. Where is she, she wonders? On the ground? 

“Adora!” she hears a distant voice call. A voice Adora recognizes, and never thought that she would hear again. 

Adora struggles to pull herself upright, her muscles wobbling and near-limp beneath her. 

“Catra?” she manages, but it’s no louder than a mumble. 

She turns her head, trying to locate the voice’s source. Her vision is so blurry—

But then she’s being _grabbed_. Roughly hauled to her feet by her ponytail, her arms pinned behind her back by cold, gnarled hands. 

Adora cries out, scalp stinging, legs half-buckled as they try and fail to support her weight. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. 

“I did not work so hard only to have you disappoint me now.” 

It’s Shadow Weaver. Shadow Weaver, pulling Adora’s hair from her scalp, holding Adora’s arms hostage. Shadow Weaver, hissing directly into Adora’s ear. “Now you will listen closely, and do as I say—”

“Let me go!” Adora screams, jerking in Shadow Weaver’s grip. But her hands are stunningly forceful as they curl ever-tighter around Adora’s wrists. Her grip, unbreakable. No matter how much Adora writhes and fights, she can’t break free—

It doesn’t make sense. Adora doesn’t remember Shadow Weaver being this strong. It’s wrong. This...this is all wrong. 

“Catra is dead and gone,” says Shadow Weaver. “You saw how my magic passed right through her. She is a fake, planted here by Horde Prime to lead you astray—”

“Adora, don’t listen to her!” comes Catra’s voice, somewhere behind her. It still sounds strangely distant. Muffled, almost. Like it’s traveling through a wall. 

She tries to turn her head again—to see where Catra went—but she can’t. Shadow Weaver’s hold doesn’t let her.

“ _Please_ , let me go—” Adora begs, and scrunches her eyes shut. “I need to think...”

“There is nothing to think about!” Shadow Weaver seethes, pulling on Adora’s ponytail with even greater violence. “Deliver the Failsafe. Finish this! Save the world!”

“ _No_ , Adora! Don’t!” Catra screams, voice raw with desperation. “There isn’t a world to save! It’s just an illusion!” 

“I will make this easy for you, then,” Shadow Weaver snarls. She shoves Adora forward, closer to the edge of the platform. She shoves and shoves until Adora’s toes hang over open air, a bottomless pit looming dark and menacing below her, and the glowing inferno of the Heart blazing green above her. 

She gasps, flailing as she seeks to scramble backward–but finds her path blocked by Shadow Weaver’s hold and body. 

“Either deliver the Failsafe and die heroically,” Shadow Weaver says. “Or die at the bottom of this fall, your bones shattered on stone—a failure, and a no one. The choice is yours.”

Shadow Weaver gives her a slight shove—not hard enough to send her toppling forward, but just hard enough to make Adora stumble and shriek in fear. 

“ _Adora_! _”_ cries Catra’s voice. She sounds strained by exertion, though Adora can’t see why. _“_ Don’t do it! Do you hear me? _”_

And hasn’t...hasn’t Adora heard those words before?

She remembers being curled up on the floor of the Crystal Castle as Catra's voice called to her, just like this. Begging for her not to do...something. Something that she couldn’t hear. 

_Adora, it’s not real,_ Catra said, even in the hallucination. 

Adora is no psychic. She couldn’t simply predict that Catra would say these things. And would Horde Prime really pull from Adora’s _hallucinations_ to dissuade her from delivering the Failsafe? She never believed them. Not until now, anyway. 

So what if…

What if Catra is right? What if that wasn’t a hallucination at all? What if _this_ is the hallucination?

It’s the most selfish thought Adora can think of. The idea that none of this is real—that Catra is alive, and safe, and that their whole future remains intact and attainable.

And to get there, all Adora has to do…

...is refuse to save the world?

It goes against everything Adora knows. Everything she’s been taught. Her whole life, she’s trained herself to put the world first. The world first, no matter what, no matter the cost to herself. But if the world isn’t truly at stake—

It’s all she wants. It’s all she wants to believe. That every moment of this time travel ordeal was fake—false. A stain on Adora’s life with no more permanence than a single terrible nightmare.

So for the first time, Adora lets herself think it. Truly think it. She lets herself consider that she doesn’t need to save the world, that there’s some sort of miraculous way out of her ever-present, ever-crushing responsibilities. That there’s another choice besides the Heart above her, and the chasm below her. 

And Catra’s right. This world...it never made sense. There were too many gaps in the logic. Questions about how or why they occupied their younger bodies, or how their memories remained unaltered despite whatever changes to the past they made. Even now, Adora remembers everything. Her first kiss with Catra at the Heart, their engagement, their _wedding._ Even though those moments are impossible now, with Catra dead. 

There are just too many of them. Too many rules of time travel that they could never make sense of, that Adora _still_ can’t make sense of. But they were so scared of losing their future, of doing something wrong, they never questioned anything for long—

But now she questions it. Now Adora sees that it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense how easily Adora arrived here, at the Heart. The lack of resistance at Mystacor, the disappearance of the Guardian...none of it adds up.

And more than that, how did Horde Prime know? How did he know that Adora would be here, at the Heart—days before she was supposed to be—when absolutely no one else did? How did he know about the Failsafe when Adora told no one except her closest friends? If he had such good surveillance on them, like Shadow Weaver claimed, wouldn’t he have wiped out the rebellion by now? Or better yet, wouldn’t he have stopped them at Mystacor? 

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. 

And Shadow Weaver shouldn’t be _this_ strong. 

“Choose, Adora!” Shadow Weaver yells, tightening her grip on Adora’s wrists. 

Adora shuts her eyes. It has to be as Catra said. This place—it isn’t real. It’s some sort of illusion. Which means that Catra is not dead. That the future isn’t gone. And She-Ra…

She-Ra isn’t gone either. 

“You want me to choose?” Adora yells. “Fine! I choose for you to _let—me—go_!” 

And she can feel it, finally—after so long. Magic, flowing through her veins, pouring from some deep place inside of her. The sear of it through her skin, her muscles, her bones. 

It’s always a strange sensation, this transformation. She can feel herself growing taller. Her hair, growing longer. Her muscles, swelling and strengthening. There’s a bright light burning into her closed eyelids, and she knows that she’s the cause—that her own body is glowing so bright, it’s nearly blinding. 

Adora opens her eyes. There’s a tiara framing her face now. A long ribbon of hair flowing from the back of her head. And when she looks down, at the abyss below, it’s from an even greater height than before. 

She did it. After so long, after so many days of miserable failures and hopelessness, Adora has transformed into She-Ra. She-Ra, _finally_. 

She-Ra...who is much stronger than Shadow Weaver will ever be. 

She-Ra jabs her elbow backward, into Shadow Weaver’s stomach. The blow might be too forceful—too powerful—because Shadow Weaver flies backward with a gasp, releasing her hold on Adora’s wrists and hair as she goes. 

Adora glances back just as Shadow Weaver tumbles to the other end of the platform. Adora freezes after that—watching. Waiting. Expecting another attack. But Shadow Weaver doesn’t stir beyond a pained groan and labored breathing. As far as Adora can tell...Shadow Weaver has been thoroughly knocked unconscious. 

Adora rubs at her own wrists, massaging away the sensation of Shadow Weaver clutching at her skin, and then takes a step back. Away from the chasm. Away from the Heart. A sigh escapes her lips as she distances herself from them both.

She nearly...she nearly let herself—

But Catra stopped her. 

Adora spins around, searching for Catra, but doesn’t immediately see her. Instead, she sees something far stranger. A swirling sphere of lightlessness, the shape seemingly erupting from the floor. It’s even taller than She-Ra is. 

And that’s when Adora hears Catra’s voice again—coming from somewhere inside of the sphere. She hears groans of exertion, curses, and as Adora watches, she sees Catra’s claws rake lines through the darkness, like she’s trying to slash her way through, and _out_. But the gashes reseal themselves too quickly, and the sphere keeps moving out of Catra’s reach before she can plunge her claws any deeper. 

“Catra, hold on!”

Adora holds out her hand, feeling the familiar warmth of her sword flickering into existence—the sleek, crystalline steel appearing beneath her grip. 

She clenches her hand around it, and then, with a shout, she launches herself forward. Her legs carry her high, _higher_ , until she lands directly on top of the sphere, her feet momentarily struggling to maintain balance on the curved surface. 

She plunges her sword down, into the darkness’s thickest point, and uses the hilt to hold herself steady. 

“Catra, duck!” she yells, and without a way to see her, she can only pray that Catra is listening. 

Adora wills the sword to fill with magic. The kind that She-Ra specializes in—bright, colorful magic that evaporates products of dark sorcery such as Shadow Weaver’s. 

The sword fills and fills, and then, finally, she releases it all—all the magic she gathered—and lets it erupt into the sphere. 

Adora leaps away, diving toward the ground. The sphere cracks like something fragile, fissures of colorful light spreading all throughout the dark surface. She rolls to a kneeling position just as the sphere disintegrates, the dark fragments shattering apart before dissolving into the floor. 

And there, in the sphere’s place...is Catra. Her hands clutched over her head in an evident attempt to shield herself. 

Adora watches as Catra squints open one eye—the blue one—and then the other. Their gazes lock. Adora’s breath stutters. 

She can hardly believe it. She cannot believe that Catra is standing only a few feet away from her, healthy and alive. 

Adora babbles something indecipherable but joyous as she surges forward, both arms outstretched.

Catra darts forward with the same eagerness. Their bodies collide somewhere in the middle, tackling each other in an embrace, with Adora’s arms physically lifting Catra off the ground with the force of her relief. 

As soon as they’re close and hugging and touching, Adora leans forward—peppering kisses all along Catra’s neck and face and eyes, as if trying to confirm Catra’s existence with the pressure of lips against skin. 

“You’re real,” Adora breathes over and over again, between the kisses. Her smile is so wide it nearly hurts. “You’re real, and alive, and—”

Catra gives a nodding laugh and wraps her arms around the back of Adora’s neck. She tugs herself up until her lips are pushed against Adora’s, and Adora feels like she’s losing her mind in giddiness. She dissolves completely into the kiss, sighing against Catra’s mouth as Catra purrs into hers. 

Catra. Who is real, and alive, and here with Adora. 

When Catra eventually pulls away, she does so only slightly—leaving her forehead balanced and pressed against Adora’s. 

“Took you long enough to figure it out, dummy.”

Adora is about to apologize for not believing her—for nearly letting herself get killed—when an odd rumbling distracts her, interrupting her train of thought. 

She hears...something. Even beyond the rumbling. A shrill voice screaming, roaring. In rage. In fury. Like there’s some furious giant at the bottom of the enormous hole beneath their feet, taking out their rage on the walls.

Adora lowers Catra back to the ground. 

“What...what _is_ that?” Adora asks, glancing around in confusion—trying to identify the source of such a strange noise. 

Catra only clenches her fists, and that is answer enough for Adora. Whatever’s causing that noise, whatever’s making that terrible sound...it can’t be anything good. 

Adora reaches for Catra’s hand, and Catra’s fist unfurls only so that they can hold on to one another. 

And it’s a good thing too—that they’re holding on to one another. 

Because that’s when the platform begins to crumble. 

* * *

The floor dissolves like sand scattering beneath a wave. 

“Catra!” Adora screams, clinging desperately to her wife as solid ground disintegrates and drops out from under them. 

Everything appears to be disintegrating. The Heart above them seems to be melting, its colors blurring into a formless mass before fading entirely. Even the glowing green walls seem to dim until they too are gone—disappeared into darkness. 

Adora keeps screaming. Keeps clinging to Catra. They’re falling to their deaths, surely. 

She turns to Catra—the only other thing Adora can see now, in this completely lightless place. She expects to see her panic mirrored there, in Catra’s face. Except—

Catra isn’t screaming at all. She seems calm, somehow. It’s like she doesn’t expect anything different than this—this void, this _abyss_ , and this tumbling fall into its depths. 

And that’s when Adora realizes that they’re not falling, but _floating_. Floating together, hand-in-hand, in a world of completely impenetrable darkness. A dimension of no one, and nothing. Nothing but Adora here, and Catra beside her.

And it’s more proof of what Adora took too long to realize. That this place...it’s not real. It’s an illusion, just as Catra said. 

“Idiot girl!” a voice snarls, from nowhere at all. Echoing in the darkness. “I gave you a simple task—a simple goal—and you _fail me_ at the last moment.”

“Who—?” Adora begins, but Catra tightens her grip on Adora’s hand, and the pressure silences her. 

“She didn’t fail,” Catra yells back, leaning forward a bit as she announces her taunt. “We won, and you _lost_.”

A shrill, bitter laugh scrapes its way into Adora’s ears. It seems to climb its way into a place deep inside of Adora, making her shiver.

“This was more than a game, you mangy creature,” the voice growls. “You have no conception of who I am, and what I could do to you. To both of you. I can make you both miserable for the rest of your days—”

Catra scoffs. She sounds so flippant, so fearless. Adora wishes she felt the same. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Catra retorts. “We’re _done_ believing your illusions—we’re going home.”

And that’s when Adora finally sees her, emerging from the darkness. The source of the voice. The source of the illusion that has tormented Adora for years. Or at least, what has felt like years. 

At first she is a nothing but a fine red mist, gathering against the darkness. But slowly, it solidifies—coalescing into a shape, a silhouette. An enormous body the size of a giant, towering over them both. A swathe of bright red skin and an ocean-sized mass of a cloak. 

Chasm. 

She leans over them threateningly, her face framed by a long curtain of shimmering white hair. 

“No power?” she repeats, almost amused. “Is that what you really think?” 

Her lips spread into a vindictive grin, revealing a set of pointed, unsettlingly white teeth. 

“What? Do you really think that Angella and Shadow Weaver _invented_ siphoning power from princesses?” 

Adora blinks uncomprehendingly. Angella? Shadow Weaver? What do they have to do with any of this? And what does Chasm mean, _siphoning power_ _from princesses_? 

She doesn’t understand—what are they talking about? 

But Catra seems to know, even if Adora doesn’t. At Chasm’s words, all confidence evaporates from Catra’s expression. Her mouth goes slack. Her eyes go wide. 

“Adora—” Catra gasps, head whirling in Adora’s direction for the first time since Chasm’s arrival. And it’s not like Catra to take her eyes off the threat directly ahead of her. She’s smarter than that, always so focused. But right now, she stares at Adora like she’s the priority—like she might drop dead at any moment. 

But it doesn’t make sense. Catra said that Chasm couldn’t hurt them. 

Chasm releases another laugh—and Adora gives another shiver.

“No,” Chasm says, her smile broadening. “I did that. I practically invented that spell. Which means—”

Chasm snaps her fingers.

“—that I can use it too.”

Catra releases Adora’s hand, and instead clutches both of Adora’s shoulders. Her claws dig somewhat painfully into her skin. “Adora!” Catra shrieks. “Wake yourself up! Now! Kick her out of your head or she’ll—”

Adora doesn’t understand. What’s happening? What is Chasm trying to do?

There’s a strange tugging in Adora’s stomach. Small, at first, but growing. She dismisses it as nervousness but—

No. Quickly, she realizes that something’s wrong. Adora groans as the tugging grows in intensity, and truly, it’s almost like something is being _wrenched_ from inside of her. 

It worsens. She feels like she’s falling apart, disintegrating into nothing—

“Adora!” Catra yells, but it’s distant and faint. 

She knows this feeling. She felt it before, in the Whispering Woods—and again later in the Crystal Castle. But somehow it’s more painful than the previous times. It’s like pieces are being torn from her, rather than drained—like they’re being scratched out with a pair of claws and stolen from a place deep inside of her. 

She’s trembling, her vision speckling and going dark. She doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know Chasm is doing to her, and she thinks she might be screaming but she can’t be sure—

But she remembers what Catra said.

_Adora! Wake yourself up!_ she commanded. _Kick her out of your head!_

Adora scrunches up her eyes and sets her jaw. Chasm is draining her of something. Her life force, her magic...something critical. But Chasm won’t get it. Adora won’t let her. Adora is done being a tool, a weapon through which others can gain power—

_Get out_ , she screams at Chasm, and given the pain that she’s in, Adora can’t be sure if it’s out loud or in her head. _Get out of my head. Get out of my body. Get out, get out—_

But it’s not working. No matter how hard she tries, the pain doesn’t relent. The dream doesn’t disappear. 

She squints open her eyes for barely a moment, her vision briefly returning to her. Catra is holding her in her arms, mouthing words that Adora cannot hear. 

And there, behind her, is Chasm. For the strangest moment, they make eye contact—Chasm and Adora. Holding each other stares as Adora writhes and screams in pain. Chasm’s expression has changed into something oddly neutral. Something pensive and curious and altogether out-of-place. 

And then, for the briefest second, Adora sees the corner of Chasm’s lips tug upward.

Adora’s vision goes completely black. She loses all sensation of Catra, of Chasm, of the pain in her stomach. It’s gone, all of it. Disappeared as quickly as Chasm snapped her fingers.

Adora expects to be dead. 

What she doesn’t expect is to shoot upright with a gasp—awake in a stone building she doesn’t recognize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'mon. It wouldn't be a chapter of anachronism if it didn't end with a cliffhanger. 
> 
> I made some cover art for this fic that I'll be sharing next week! I'm a kinda mediocre artist but yeah...I worked stupidly hard on it. It'll be incredibly overdramatic.
> 
> I'll also be asking an important question to you, the readers, next week—so definitely stay tuned!  
>  **Also[@whatnames](https://whatnames.tumblr.com/) did some amazing voice acting for Chasm from this chapter! Go check it out!** <https://whatnames.tumblr.com/post/631633786055081984/me-voicing-original-characters-from-she-ra>
> 
> and ****[@assylamsh](https://twitter.com/assylamsh) created some beautiful artwork for this fic! definitely check her other art out!  
> 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra, Adora, and Angella struggle to return home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...here it is. The last chapter of anachronism. 14 weeks later and here are. 
> 
> I'd like to thank you all again for reading this far. When I came up with this idea—as part of a throwaway "oh man wouldn't this be so angsty" conversation with my roommate—I never would've imagined that this story would gain so much traction. So thank you so much for your continued engagement with this fic—over 700 comments, nearly 1800 kudos, and over 30000 hits! I still can't really believe it. Y'all are amazing.
> 
> Anyway, without further ado...here's chapter 15.

“Adora.”

Adora's eyes snap to a spot directly beside her. 

Her eyes widen in disbelief. There, kneeling on the ground at Adora’s side—

“Angella?”

Angella smiles serenely. “Hello, Adora. I believe it’s been some time.”

Adora can’t believe it. She can’t believe that after so long, Angella is right here—sitting beside her. She’s thinner, certainly. Haggard and worn. But alive, and unhurt, and _here_ —

Tears fill Adora’s eyes. “Angella,” she gasps again. And she can’t help herself. She throws herself forward, her arms outstretched until they curl around Angella’s back. 

Angella sighs, quick to return the embrace. She rubs soothing circles across Adora’s back. “It’s good to see you,” she says. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed everyone.”

The tears cascade from Adora’s eyes, trailing down her cheeks and staining the tattered fabric of Angella’s shirt. “We’re going to take you home,” Adora tells her thickly. “That’s why we’re here. Catra and I—”

Adora freezes. Catra. Where is Catra?

She slips out of Angella’s arms and begins to search the room frantically with her eyes. Adora sees nothing, at first. Just stone bookshelves filled with dusty tomes. But then she looks down at the spot on her other side, across from Angella. 

That’s where she finds Catra, asleep on a frayed tapestry. Catra's eyes roam in a frenzied pattern beneath her eyelids, but as far as Adora can tell, she is otherwise unharmed. Adora is inexpressibly grateful for that fact—for the breath puffing between Catra's lips and the pulse steadily beating in her chest. 

It’s the first time Adora notices that she, too, is sitting atop a tapestry—just like Catra is. And that’s what she felt in that not-quite-hallucination, wasn’t it? A strange fabric beneath her body. 

A shuddering exhale escapes Adora’s lips. All this time...all this time Catra was right here, sitting beside her. Even while Adora grieved. Even while Adora spiraled into loneliness and misery and hopelessness...Catra was right here. Right here, the whole time. 

_God_ , Adora wishes…

She wishes she could make Chasm pay. 

And more than that, she wishes that Catra would wake up. 

* * *

Catra doesn’t know what it means when Adora dissolves in her arms, disappearing into the darkness. 

But she wills herself not to panic. Maybe that’s what happens when one of them wakes up. Maybe Adora is awake now, and Catra simply needs to join her—

She looks up at Chasm, who floats in strange silence above her. Chasm stares as though she’s observing some sort of play—and an amusing one at that, given the way her lips are quirked slightly upward. 

Catra wishes she could hurt her—hurt Chasm. It would only be fair, given all the pain she’s caused Catra and Adora throughout this whole awful ordeal. 

But Catra knows that if she swipes her claws, Chasm will just dissolve into mist around them. That’s her nature. Without people to control or infect, she occupies no physical form—no body to attack or wreak revenge against. 

“I _never_ want to see you again,” hisses Catra. And she wishes that she could make it a threat. 

Chasm’s smile pulls even wider. 

And Catra is tired, so tired, of seeing Chasm smile. 

“No,” Chasm says. “You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“You’re going to stay here. Forever. Alone and powerless. Just as the people who imprisoned you intended.”

Chasm doesn’t answer. Just stares. And Catra cannot stand it. She cannot stand another minute in this place—this dreamworld that tortured her endlessly, and nearly killed the person Catra loves most. 

With nothing else to say, Catra begins to will herself awake. _Get out_ , she tells Chasm, in her head. And a bright white crack forms in the darkness around her. Then another. Then another. The way out, same as before. 

But Chasm doesn’t rage the way she did the last time. She doesn’t call Catra a _little fool_ or any other furious insults. She merely watches, unconcerned, as the illusion begins to break apart—fissuring and fading into an opposing brightness. 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Catra demands. It’s not like Chasm to let Catra have the last word, and few seconds remain before Catra jolts herself awake. 

But this, too, leaves Chasm unconcerned. She doesn't move. Doesn't yell. Her expression is even when she says:

“I know when to cut my losses.”

She begins to retreat into what remains of the darkness, her body once again evaporating into red vapor. 

“—and to take what I can still get.”

And that’s the last thing Catra hears before the illusion falls apart, and Catra is blinded by blazing light. 

A moment later, Catra wakes to the image of Adora’s face looming over hers. Those blue-gray eyes framed by long lashes, that mouth that so often curves into a goofy, all-too-pretty smile. A smile that makes Catra _melt_. 

Though Adora is hardly smiling now. She looks worried, leaned over Catra like this—her eyes wide and her brows smashed together. 

Still. It’s one of the best sights Catra could ever wake up to. 

“Catra?” Adora says, and _god_ , Catra loves the way Adora says her name. She feels Adora’s hands gripping her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Catra answers by thrusting herself upward into a kiss. A real kiss, in the real world. Adora makes a small noise of surprise as their lips connect, but her eyes slowly flutter shut regardless, her hand traveling to cup the back of Catra’s head, drawing Catra even closer—deepening the kiss into something unfathomable and truly, deliciously _real_. 

She hears someone clear their throat—and Catra groans in annoyance at the interruption. 

Adora laughs sheepishly, quick to pull away upon realizing she is being watched. Catra groans again at the loss of contact, but finds herself with significantly less to complain about as Adora takes her hand and pulls her upright, lacing together their fingers in the small space between their sides.

Awkwardly, Angella again attempts to clear her throat before asking: “Are you both alright?”

Catra opens her mouth, prepared to answer, when Adora interrupts her. 

“I’m okay!” Adora blurts, and uses her free hand to rub at the back of her neck. “You’re...uh...probably wondering why I’m kissing the person who invaded your kingdom—”

“Adora,” Catra sighs, somewhat exasperated. Because _of course_ this is what Adora fears— Angella’s disapproval. As if _anyone_ could disapprove of Adora after she saved all of Etheria and most of Angella’s family. “It’s okay,” Catra tells her. “She knows. I already explained it to her.”

Adora blinks, shuts her mouth, and opens it again. “Oh,” she says, looking at Catra first, and then returning her gaze to Angella. “And you’re...okay with that? With us?”

Angella gives a small nod. “In truth, at first, I was enormouslyconfused. I thought she came here to kill you while you were unconscious. But when I saw your pin on her shirt...”

“Yeah,” Adora says, the word winding and slow as it leaves her lips. Though her grip is confident as she gives Catra’s hand a small squeeze. “We’re sort of married.”

Angella smiles and releases a light laugh. “Yes. Catra made that clear.”

Adora’s brows furrow, like she still expects Angella’s disappointment. “And you’re not mad?”

“Clearly, Etheria has changed a great deal in my absence” Angella remarks. “But no, I am not angry. If anything, I am happy to know that the world has healed beyond war. And, of course, I’m happy that you found love.” Angella shoots Catra a short glare, though it lacks real heat. “Even _if_ your wife destroyed the gardens I maintained for a nearly a century—”

“Besides,” Catra interjects. “Even if Angella did hate me, we’d put aside our differences to keep you—” She dips her chin over Adora’s shoulder. “—from becoming Chasm’s new favorite outfit.”

Catra intends the words to be a lighthearted joke. But despite Catra’s efforts, they still seem to paint the room in dread. At the mention of Chasm, Adora looks down at the floor, and Angella’s brow creases with worry. 

“What happened in there?” Angella asks. 

Catra waits for Adora to explain...but she doesn’t. Lips sealed tightly shut, she keeps her eyes on the floor, staring as though transfixed.

Catra supposes that she’ll have to answer instead. 

“I finally convinced Adora that she was trapped in an illusion,” Catra explains. “Just like we planned. And it worked.”

She doesn’t need to give additional details. Catra knows that Adora is likely ashamed of how long—and how seriously— Chasm managed to trick her. And more than that...she’s likely unwilling to talk about how close she came to making yet _another_ deadly, heroic sacrifice...simply because Chasm convinced her it was necessary. 

Yeah, Catra thinks. That’s something that warrants a _definite_ conversation later. 

“But…” Angella shakes her head. “Right before you woke… Adora, it looked like you were in a great deal of pain.”

Again, Adora doesn’t answer. She merely shuts her eyes and shakes her head slightly, as though reluctant to even consider the memory. 

“Oh,” Catra says, knowing that Angella won’t rest until she receives an explanation. “Chasm pulled a nasty little trick. She used the siphoning spell that we did on Adora—but worse. Much worse. I didn’t even know Chasm could do that.”

“Of course she can,” Angella says, eyes narrowing. “It’s her spell, from her book. I only assumed she wouldn’t use it—using the spell disrupts the illusion, and I knew she wouldn't risk her chance at securing Adora as a host. But…” Angella stares at the spellbook in her lap. “I didn’t consider what she’d do, if she thought the cause was already lost—”

Catra scoffs dismissively. “Yeah, well. Luckily, Adora woke up before she could complete the spell—”

At this, Angella’s lips press into a thin line. “How much magic did she take, exactly?”

Catra frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You said she used a siphoning spell,” Angella recalls. “One even more powerful than what I attempted. That means Chasm must have taken a great deal of magic from Adora in the process, even if the spell didn’t complete. And if she had enough power...” Angella’s gaze darkens. “Waking up shouldn’t have been possible. She'd fail to gain complete control, yes. But at the very least, she'd keep you trapped. All the accounts I’ve read—” 

“Well, clearly she didn’t take enough,” Catra interrupts. “We escaped, didn’t we? She didn’t reach full-magic-power or whatever. Adora woke herself up before she got the chance.” She turns to Adora. “Right, Adora?”

Adora looks up from the floor, finally, looking almost startled to find herself part of the conversation. “Right,” she says, automatically. “I feel awake, at least. I mean—” She glances around. “This isn’t another illusion, right?”

“No,” says Angella. “It’s just…” She sighs. “You two must have been very lucky to escape her so narrowly.” 

Catra shrugs and gives Adora an encouraging smirk. “Can’t exactly be surprised. This is the second ancient evil we’ve faced and defeated. We’re practically experts in it by now.”

She nudges Adora with a shoulder, but Adora hesitates before returning any semblance of a smile. 

“We were definitely lucky,” Adora says. “And we’ll be even luckier if we figure out a way home. Entrapta’s portal is probably closed by now—”

Catra smirks again, glad to know something Adora doesn’t. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

* * *

Between Angella’s years of traversing the landscape and Catra’s ability to follow the low frequency emitter, they find themselves with a clear path back to Entrapta’s portal. Or, at least, back to the place where the portal was opened. 

Angella flies overhead—more accustomed to navigating the geography from above. Adora and Catra, meanwhile, steadily follow the ground. Adora watches as Catra’s ears twitch, searching for the sound of the emitter beneath the whipping breeze. 

It’s only when Catra stumbles that Adora notices just how sliced up Catra’s feet are—bruised and bloodied from walking over the rough stones blanketing the ground. 

“Catra,” she gasps. “You’re hurt—”

Catra shakes her head, eyes on the horizon. “It’s nothing.”

“Catra—”

“I’m fine, Adora. I just wanna go home.”

“Catra,” Adora says again, more sternly this time. She grabs Catra by both shoulders and physically holds her back. And it horrifies her, to see the stones beneath Catra’s feet so slick with blood. “Stop walking and let me take a look.” 

At first, Catra only sighs. But then, slowly, she nods her head.

Adora waves her arms, looking at the sky where Angella flies overhead. “Angella!” she calls as loudly as she dares, cupping her hands around her mouth. “We’re taking a rest!” 

Angella gives a small salute in response, then switches from gliding forward to circling above. Hovering, waiting for them to continue, but giving Catra and Adora their distance. 

Adora summons her sword. She dissolved it upon starting their walk, knowing that it would just be something to carry—and that it wouldn’t protect her from any real threats in this place (namely, Chasm). Only now does she reassemble it from the shattered fragments of light that only She-Ra can produce. 

Catra snorts when Adora transforms the sword into a broom and begins sweeping rocks from the ground, clearing a much softer patch of dirt. One that’s free of the rocks that have scratched up Catra’s feet so terribly. 

“Stop laughing—I just don’t want my butt to look like your feet,” Adora tells her petulantly, gesturing to Catra’s marred toes as the broom returns to its original form—glowing brightly before becoming a sword once again. 

But of course Catra releases another laugh. “You’re right. I definitely wouldn’t want to damage She-Ra’s divinely perfect butt.”

Adora scoffs. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“No, no, I agree with you!” Catra insists mockingly. “She-Ra’s butt is one of the wonders of the universe. Damaging it would be worse than defacing a monument—”

Adora rolls her eyes and scoops Catra into her arms, eliciting a surprised shriek. 

“Hey!” Catra cries, but doesn’t have time to say more than that. Not before Adora drops them both onto the now-cleared ground, seating herself with crossed legs and Catra balanced on her lap. 

“Show-off,” grumbles Catra—though that’s the full extent of her complaints. She can’t seem to muster more as she winds her arms around the back of Adora’s neck, hugging her close. 

Adora sighs at the sensation. It’s almost hard to believe that Adora really, truly thought that she would never feel such a thing again. 

“Your show off,” Adora replies—as is tradition. A tradition that she once took for granted, but never will again. 

Adora lightly turns Catra’s foot in her hands, examining the shallow scratches, raw and red, and the dried blood that coats the deeper, more brutal-looking cuts. 

“Not all of these are fresh,” Adora observes, then shoots Catra a glare. “How long have you been walking on these? Since before we left?”

Catra shrugs. 

Adora sighs sharply in disbelief. “Catra,” she groans. “Why didn’t you ask me to heal them?”

Catra shrugs again, but doesn’t answer. 

“Catra, seriously—”

“Look,” Catra answers, finally. “Whenever you heal people...it always seems to take a lot out of you.” Her arms tighten around the nape of Adora’s neck. “I figured you’ve had enough of that lately. What with us needing to use your magic to wake you up, and then Chasm—”

“That’s silly,” Adora says. “What’s the point of having healing magic if I can’t use it to heal my wife?”

With that, Adora clasps both hands around Catra’s foot, shuts her eyes, and concentrates. She feels a warmth there, in her hands. And even beneath her eyelids, she can see a faint glow. 

Healing magic comes to Adora much more easily than it once did. And though their recent ordeal has pulled a great deal of magic from her, she still has plenty to spare—a thousand years worth of it, probably, thanks to what transpired at the Heart of Etheria. 

What transpired the _first time_ she visited the Heart of Etheria, she means. And not what happened...back there. In the dream. In Chasm’s illusion. 

“Is that what she made you think?” Catra says softly—almost fearfully—as Adora moves her magic from the healed foot to the other, still-injured one. “That there was no point? Is that how she convinced you that you couldn’t transform—that you were going to die?”

Adora keeps her eyes shut for several seconds longer than she should. But the silence draws too long, and she can feel Catra watching her, waiting for an answer. 

“I don't know what I was thinking,” Adora says. The words are clipped, almost defensive. “I don’t think I _was_ thinking.” 

Catra makes a sound—some mixture of a grunt and a sigh. 

Adora knows that sound. They’ve had this conversation so many times before. _So many times_ , Catra has warned Adora against being reckless with her own life. Has warned her against being selfless to the point of self-destruction. 

But back there, in the dream...that was different. Adora _swears_ it was different. 

“You need to _start_ thinking about these things, Adora,” Catra tells her, and Adora has heard this before too. “Don’t you realize how much people care about you—how heartbroken they’d be if you were gone?” 

But it’s not fair. It’s not fair, because Catra can’t possibly know what it was like. She got out—she woke up. But Adora didn’t. Adora was stuck there, convinced that Catra was dead. That the world as Adora knew it was irretrievable, darkened, _corrupted_ forever...and there was absolutely nothing Adora could do about it. 

No one else in that world would _ever_ understand what Adora had lost. Adora was alone, completely alone, without the person she loved most, and without the life she had suffered endlessly to return to. 

“I didn’t think about it because they were gone!” Adora screams. “Everyone who mattered to me was _gone_!” 

Adora’s voice is volcanic. Heated, explosive. Uncontrollable in its trembling and its fury. 

At the outburst, Catra’s mouth falls slightly open. Adora hardly ever yells at her, no matter the circumstance. But Adora can’t stop herself now. She feels fissured, fragile. Though she knows that this isn’t Catra’s fault, that Catra isn’t the one to blame. 

But Adora already feels guilty enough without Catra questioning her. She feels guilty for falling for Chasm’s tricks, for needing to be rescued, for letting herself get manipulated. She can’t believe herself. She is _sickened_ by herself. Because, really—she’s supposed to be some big hero of the universe, yet she nearly let a _bad dream_ break her into irrecoverable pieces? 

“Adora…” Catra says slowly, trying to collect a response from the silence. 

Adora shakes her head and tries to continue. 

“Even Glimmer and Bow…” she says. “They weren’t the same. They didn’t know me anymore. They didn’t understand.” She shakes her head. “Nothing was the way it should’ve been. The future I wanted...it died when you did, Catra.”

She lowers Catra’s foot to the ground and simply sits there, thinking. Trying to find the words to explain herself. But it’s difficult—so difficult—when she would much prefer to simply dissolve into silence. She wants to see and think and _feel_ nothing except the sensation of Catra holding her.

“There’s just...there’s no way to describe or explain it—how I felt in there,” Adora tells her finally. “It was the worst pain in the world. I never thought anything could hurt that badly. Not even the Heart’s magic, nothing in my life had ever—” 

Adora’s voice shatters in the way that old windows do in a storm—sharply, and dissonantly. But still, she swallows and clears her throat. 

“She made me think that you were _dead_ , Catra. That you had died in pain. And alone. And then she made me think that there was no hope, that everything we had ever worked for was _gone_ , and for nothing.”

She shoots Catra a glare—her eyes filled with a challenge.

“So what exactly was I supposed to think—or feel—after that, huh? Hope wasn’t an option. And self-worth kind of goes out the window when a portal erases your entire future.” 

Catra doesn’t respond. Doesn’t provide an answer. Instead, she only stares—watching Adora like one might watch over a sickbed. With helplessness. With disbelief. With fear that nothing will ever be right again.

Tentatively, Catra reaches out and smooths a hand across Adora’s cheek. Her jaw. Finally, the fingers come to rest at the base of Adora’s chin, holding her there. 

“We’re gonna go home,” Catra says, and there’s a barely-restrained thickness to her voice. “We’re gonna go home, and we’re gonna go back to having things the way we wanted them. And we’re gonna forget about this literalnightmare—”

Adora almost laughs at that. Yes, she believes that they’ll return home. She doesn't doubt that Entrapta will find some way to retrieve them, just like they always expected she would. 

But the idea that they’ll move on from this? _Forget_ about this? 

Adora shakes her head. It doesn’t seem remotely possible. 

And it's frightening—the realization that this nightmare is a part of her now. One that will never go away. 

* * *

It doesn’t take much longer to arrive at their destination: the place where Entrapta’s portal was opened. 

It’s a nondescript location. A flat plain of rocks and dirt interspersed with the occasional boulder. Adora doesn’t recognize the spot at first, not until Catra squeezes her hand and says, “We’re here!” just as Angella swoops down from the sky. 

Catra finds the low-frequency emitter exactly where she left it—on the ground, untouched by the elements. Adora sees Catra’s ears twitch as they draw closer to it, expression wincing slightly too. Whatever sound it makes, it must not be pleasant. 

“Last time I was here, I saw Entrapta trying to open another portal. It collapsed pretty quickly, but knowing Entrapta, Glimmer, and Bow…” Catra smiles. “They probably haven’t stopped trying.” 

Catra’s gaze finds Adora’s, holding it steady. “Our friends...they never would’ve given up on us,” Catra says. “We should have realized that from the start.”

As Catra finishes the words, Adora finds herself startled by a loud noise— a snapping, crackling sound that causes her to jump. With it comes a strange light—too-colorful and too-warm, its brightness stretching their shadows to inhuman lengths.

When Adora, Angella, and Catra spin around, they’re greeted with the sight of a portal. A purple, pulsating circle of light. Small—too small for any of them to fit through—but perhaps wide enough for a child. 

For a moment, Adora thinks she sees Entrapa and Glimmer on the other side. The long purple column of one of Entrapta’s pigtails. The shimmer of Glimmer’s hair.

Their images ripple through the film of purple light, almost like the portal is a pool of water, rather than a corridor between this empty netherworld and the magical, life-filled surface of Etheria. 

Though this netherworld hadn’t proved to be as empty as Adora once hoped. Chasm proved that quite emphatically. 

The portal disappears nearly as soon as it arrives, fizzling out like a firecracker. Adora, Catra, and Adora stand there for a few moments after, staring. Waiting for it to reappear. 

But it doesn’t. Not immediately, anyway.

“See?” Catra says finally, filling the silence left in the portal’s wake. “It’s only a matter of time. I saw one of those portals last time we were here. And if we’re seeing one now...they must be trying pretty frequently.”

It’s unclear how much time passes after that. For a long while, they stand in wait, hoping that the following portal will serve their needs—wide and stable enough for them to pass through. But the next several portals are still fairly small, and just as volatile. 

Adora uses She-Ra’s strength to carry over a couple of the nearby boulders. They’ll be more comfortable to sit on than the ground, she thinks. They’re smoother, at least. Less damp. Especially since the ground remains almost completely covered with sharp shards of rock and gravel.

Once they’re moved, Angella lands atop one boulder, settling herself into a sitting position while Adora climbs up the face of the other. She de-transforms as soon as she reaches the top, knowing that she’ll take up less space without She-Ra’s sizable height, and glances down at Catra below. There’s a short drumming sound as Adora pats the space beside her, smiling down at Catra as she does so. 

It’s a tentative smile. A fragile one. But Adora summons it all the same. She doesn’t want there to be any doubt—she still loves Catra so much. And she cannot wait to go home, to live their future as planned. 

Catra’s lips curve into a matching smile and she, too, climbs up the boulder’s face. As soon as she’s at the top, Adora opens her arms and outstretches her legs. Catra settles herself between them, tucking her shoulder beneath Adora’s chin and leaning her back against Adora’s chest. 

They must have sat like this countless times...but Adora can’t remember when they last did. It feels like they’ve been separated for an eternity. 

Adora kisses behind Catra’s ear as they watch another portal appear. This one is still too small for any of them, but it’s certainly larger than the last. And she can't help but appreciate that glowing purple light in the distance—the sparkling, flashing colors reminding Adora of some sort of fireworks show. 

Fireworks. Adora can't remember the last time she saw those, either. Back before Chasm's illusion, most likely—which feels like years in the past to Adora. But how long has it actually been? It's all so confusing—and it's impossible to know. 

It’s also impossible to know how long they wait, in this spot. There’s no night or sunrise to indicate the hour. This whole world is simply suffused in a steady, dull gray light with no evident source. If anything, it’s quite the relief to see the bright bursts of color provided by the portals, just for a change of pace. 

As they watch and wait, the portals that materialize gradually grow in size and stability. Eventually, they’re wide enough to pass through so long as they duck (and Adora _doesn’t_ turn into She-Ra). And shortly after that, they start to last for several minutes rather than several seconds. 

“How will we know that it’s safe to pass through?” murmurs Catra. “I’d rather not get cut in half if the portal suddenly collapses.”

Adora tightens her arms around Catra, unenthused by the thought. “We’ll keep waiting, I guess. Until the portals last for an hour, just like the one that brought us here.”

“How will we know it’s an hour?” Catra says. “We can’t exactly tell the time here.”

“We can count,” Adora says, shrugging. “It’s not like we have anything better to do.”

It’s a slow, incremental process. Catra keeps fidgeting and making impatient noises, but Adora doesn’t feel the need to complain. Not with Catra here, in her arms. Adora has already lived through her worst-case scenario—she can stand a little wait, no matter how long. 

Still, it’s a strange reversal of roles. For Catra to be so fidgety and restless, with Adora so patient and relaxed. The counting is calming to Adora, at least. It gives her something to occupy herself with. 

When a portal finally reaches sixty whole minutes of existence, Adora releases her hold on Catra and waves at Angella. 

“The next one,” she calls. “We should be safe to pass through—to go home.” 

* * *

For the first time in Catra’s life, it’s easy to fall through a portal. 

Though she never imagined how many times she’d end up needing to do such a thing—how many times she would pass through a portal between worlds, real or otherwise.

She hopes that this is the last time. The last time, for good. 

Angella, Adora, and Catra cling to each other’s hands as they step into the purple light, refusing to leave anyone behind. The portal smells almost exactly as Catra remembers it: like ozone and power and energy—though there’s a distinct lack of the burnt rope scent from last time. 

The purple interior is blinding to Catra’s eyes. She can only step sightlessly forward, following the tug of Adora’s hand in hers. 

She isn’t prepared when she falls forward, tumbling headfirst onto something hard and metallic—something that clangs loudly when her body lands against it. Her hand is torn from Adora’s when she slams her funnybone into whatever she fell on top of, causing her to jolt and howl in pain. 

Though that’s not the only scream Catra hears. Two voices to Catra’s right are groaning in pain (Adora and Angella, she assumes, probably bruised from their fall onto the floor). But she also hears several additional voices—ones directly in front of her, judging by their loudness—positively _shriek_ in surprised fright. 

Catra opens her eyes to see Entrapta, Glimmer, Bow, and Micah standing in front of her—all three of them poised in some truly ridiculous defensive positions, like they think they’ve fallen victim to some sort of surprise attack.

Bow is first to collect himself—the first to lower his arms and properly examine the sight before him. “Adora? Catra?” His eyes grow all the wider, and he gasps. “ _Queen Angella?_ ” 

Angella is still, in fact, sprawled on the ground beside Catra and Adora. At the sound of Bow’s voice, Angella’s eyes fly open to locate him. 

And then they travel to Glimmer, who is still frozen with her mouth agape. Mother and daughter both find themselves overcome with surprise. Glimmer, in fact, must be holding something breakable, because Catra sees that something fall from her grasp and shatter on the floor. 

And then, finally, Angella’s eyes latch onto Micah’s. 

Catra hears Angella’s breath catch. She can only guess at what it’s like—to see the person you love alive, after spending so much time convinced of their demise. 

Catra can’t imagine it. 

But when Catra glances at Adora beside her—when she sees the tears welling in Adora’s eyes and the grateful smile curving her lips—she knows that Adora can. Adora likely understands better than anyone else. 

“ _Angie_?” Micah gasps, surging forward as though pulled by a rope. He sprints to her side, tackling her in a wide-armed embrace, and she gives a small _oof_ as they make contact. 

Glimmer is next to break the trance. “Mom!” she cries, ecstatic, and dives into the hug alongside her father. 

Angella immediately finds herself enclosed in a circle of arms and tears, her ears smothered by the overjoyed sobs of _I missed you_ _so much_ and endless exclamations of _I can’t believe it!_

Entrapta and Bow kneel in front of Adora and Catra, leaving Angella and her family to their reunion. 

“How long were we gone?” Adora asks, and she sounds terrified to know the answer. 

“About four days,” says Bow. 

Adora’s eyes find Catra’s, wide with disbelief. “Only _four_ _days_? But—”

“We were just about to send in Emily to look for you!” Entrapta interjects, gesturing to the large, spherical bot she’s kept ever since her time in the Horde. “But obviously, you beat us to the punch.”

“We had to salvage parts from Hordak’s original portal machine in order to get this one to work,” Bow says. “And it took a lot of tries and repairs. We’re sorry if you were waiting for a while—we moved as quickly as we could.”

“It’s okay,” Catra says, and wraps an arm behind Adora’s back. Adora sighs and leans on Catra’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut in relief. “We’re just grateful you got us back. That you didn’t give up on us.” 

Bow’s brows pull together. “Give up on you? Of course we wouldn’t do that. We’re the Best Friends Squad—we don’t leave anyone behind.” 

For a moment, he glances between Adora and Catra worriedly. And of course, because he’s Bow...he notices that something is wrong. 

“What happened in there?” Bow asks quietly. “Glimmer came to get me as soon as you both went in. She said that something must have trapped you in the portal—”

Against her shoulder, Catra feels Adora shake her head slightly—her subtle way of indicating that she doesn’t want to discuss this topic right now.

Catra hesitates before saying, “It’s a long story. A _really_ long story. And I promise that we’ll explain it someday soon. But right now…” She tightens her arm around Adora, preparing to lift her to her feet. “Adora and I could really use some rest and food. And so could Angella.”

Bow’s features soften. He glances between Catra and Adora again, and Catra knows what he’s sensing. That whatever happened in there, in the portal…it couldn’t have been anything remotely good. 

“Of course,” Bow says. “Whatever you need—take as much time as you need.”

* * *

The door to their bedroom creaks slightly as they open it. 

Catra used to hate that sound. Adora must have oiled it a million times for her, but no matter how often either of them attempted to fix it, the hinges always seemed to return to their squealing, shrieking original state.

Now Catra doesn’t mind the sound at all. It’s a sound unique to this place—their bedroom. Their home. 

Catra glances around. Everything is exactly how they left it. The plush bed, covered with pillows and neatly made—Adora has always insisted on doing that. Adora’s desk, covered in books and crystals and maps and god knows what else from her various projects and hobbies. The closet that contains their clothes, freshly laundered and perfumed with the detergent that Catra likes best. 

Melog is curled up on the floor, head tucked between their paws. Only upon seeing them enter do they cock their head and mew softly, sounding almost surprised to see Catra and Adora returned. 

“Hey, buddy,” Catra smiles, outstretching a hand. “Long time no see. Did you miss us?”

Melog raises their head and makes a long, more excited mew. They teeter upright and bound forward eagerly, pressing their head beneath Catra’s awaiting hand. She kneads through their not-quite-fur, then kneels so that she can encircle Melog within her arms. 

“I guess you did,” Catra says, swallowing tears and clutching Melog tightly, squeezing her side against theirs. “I missed you too.”

Adora shuts the door behind them, eliciting another shriek of the hinges. Catra is still holding onto Melog when she hears a faint thump, then the sound of sliding fabric. 

She releases Melog to glance behind herself. Adora has sunk down the length of the door frame. She sits now at the base of it, her knees pulled beneath her chin, her head face-down within the circle of her arms. 

A gasping sob wracks Adora’s body. Then another. Then another. Her shoulders tremble like a mountainside beneath an avalanche. 

A noise of protest escapes Catra’s lips. It’s an awful thing to see. Adora, so broken and hopeless-looking.

She releases Melog and crawls over to Adora, walking on her knees. 

“Hey,” Catra says, reaching tentatively for Adora’s shoulders. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” 

Adora tips her head up from the spot between her arms. Her cheeks are utterly soaked with tears—red and blotchy and gleaming in the setting sunlight. She mumbles something incoherent, something that Catra doesn’t understand. 

But when Catra asks her to repeat what she said, Adora just shakes her head and sinks back down into her arms. Refusing to meet Catra’s eyes. And that won’t do. She wants Adora to talk to her, at the very least. 

Catra encloses Adora in her arms, pulling Adora’s chest and head flush against her shoulders. Almost immediately, she can feel Adora’s tears spattering her skin, leaving dark splotches in the thin fur where her neck meets her shoulder. 

Melog makes a grief-filled mewling noise, then curls themself around Adora and Catra both—a circle of protection, with Melog crammed into the space between Adora’s back and the door. 

It’s only with Adora pressed against her that Catra can finally make out Adora’s words. 

“I never…” Adora is still gasping. Hiccuping, almost. “I never thought I’d see this room again. I never thought I’d see you, or Melog, or this room, or anything—”

Catra strokes her hands up and down Adora’s back. “It wasn’t real, Adora. We’re here. We’re okay.”

“She had me so convinced,” Adora sobs. “I really believed that it was all gone. Everything. You—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Catra says. And it never has been. Catra knows that she needs to say it more often, especially now. It’s never been Adora’s fault, this martyr complex, this feeling of personal failure and responsibility whenever people she cares about get hurt. Shadow Weaver planted these seeds within her so many years ago. And Chasm had merely watered them—nurtured them into tall, creeping vines that nearly suffocated Adora from the inside. 

“She hurt me _so badly_ ,” cries Adora, each word punctuated by tears and gasps and shuddering whimpers. “She knew exactly what it would take to break me into pieces and I—”

“It wasn’t real,” Catra says again, because it’s all that Catra herself clings to. There’s no other comfort. There’s nothing Catra can say to make what happened remotely okay. 

“But how do we know?” Adora asks frantically. “How do we know that this is real? What if this is another trick, and Chasm never left—”

Catra draws her even closer; clutches her ever-tighter. 

“Because we’re going to be happy,” Catra says—nearly growls. An oath to Chasm herself, even if Chasm’s ears are too far for the sound to carry. Even if Chasm doesn’t have ears at all. Catra still doesn’t quite know what Chasm was. Maybe she never will. 

She hopes that she’ll never need to know. 

“Everything she did in there,” Catra says. “It was meant to hurt us. Drive us apart. Break our hearts. But it didn’t work. We’re still here. Me. You. And we’re going to be happy, Adora. And not just for a moment, but for a long time. For the rest of our lives. I promise you.”

Adora hiccups, her breath gusting warm against Catra’s neck. “That’s a pretty big promise.”

Catra kisses Adora’s tear-stained cheek. 

“I’ll work hard to keep it if you will,” Catra whispers, when she pulls her lips away. She layers her hands on Adora’s shoulders and gently tugs her upright, so that they’re sitting eye-to-eye. Staring. 

“Promise?” Catra asks. 

Adora sniffs. Sighs. And then she nods eagerly, like nothing else could be better. 

“Promise,” she replies. 

Catra smiles. “Good,” she says, and drags a palm across Adora’s cheeks, wiping them clean of tears. “Now let’s go get ourselves cleaned up. We _reek_. Sitting here smelling like dirt and sweat and god-knows-what-else.”

Adora raises both eyebrows, then leans down to give her own armpit a short sniff. She immediately winces at the scent—nearly gagging. “Oh, yup,” Adora says, waving a hand over her face. “That is pretty ripe. I could definitely use a nice long shower.”

Judging by the equally awful scent emanating from Catra’s own body, she knows that she could probably use one just as much. But unlike Adora, she hardly finds the prospect _nice_. Catra hates the water. And sure, showers frighten her less than baths or pools. But she still prefers to make them as infrequent—and short—as possible, usually diving under the water for a few minutes at most. 

But she’d prefer to not leave Adora alone for an extended period of time. Not when she’s like this, anyway. The last thing Catra needs is to find Adora sobbing, alone, on the floor of the shower. 

Catra wrinkles her nose and gives an exaggerated sigh. “I _suppose_ I could tolerate a shower...if you joined me.”

Adora shoots Catra a shaky smile. “You, suggesting a shower? Maybe this is a dreamworld after all.”

* * *

The bed. That’s where they stumble after their joint shower, hands shaking as they pull back the covers. Knees dipping tentatively onto the mattress, as if it might disappear out from under them at any moment. 

The mattress sinks like it always does. Plush. Warm. Theirs. 

Catra and Adora sink down too. They arrange themselves in each other’s arms, eyes locked across the pillows and resenting the sparse distance. Beneath the sheets, Adora’s legs entwine with Catra’s—a tied rope, held together at last. 

There are tears still—from Adora. Just a few, trickling slow and languid. Catra can see that much. Her breath, too, remains uneven and catching. 

And Catra knows. She knows it will take a long time for Adora to heal after what happened—after all the pain and grief Chasm inflicted upon her. 

But Catra also knows Adora. Beautiful, brave, strong Adora—who lies beside Catra on this bed that they share, her hair splayed like threads of gold, eyes gleaming like polished slate. 

Catra loves Adora so much, it aches within her. She wants her to be healed, _now_ —back to her smiling, steadfast, hopeful self. 

But she’ll be okay. Catra knows she will. And Catra will make sure she gets there, back to _okay_. Maybe even better than okay. 

Adora winds her arms around Catra’s neck, inching closer and closer until their lips crash together. Her mouth is demanding—hungry—as Adora begins to kiss Catra senseless. Slow, at first, but growing frantic with each lingering stroke of lips and tongue. 

Time begins to progress in unknowable waves. An hour could’ve passed, they’ve sat there so long with their lips connected. Or a day. Or a year.

Catra doesn’t care how long it’s been. This is where she wants to be forever. 

Their hands begin to wander across each other’s bodies, and the kiss grows heated. Desperate. Catra can’t get enough of it. She arches herself closer—pressing herself into Adora’s touch—until their lips start to wander too. Ghosting, scraping across collarbones and necks and hips and further still. 

“You’re really here,” Adora whispers reverently, during a brief respite. 

Catra nods and tightens her grip. “I’m here,” she says. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

They stay in bed for days. Holding one another, clutching each other close. Dozing off every so often, only to suffer a barrage of nightmares—and then waking to find that there is nothing to fear. Not here. Not in the real world, anyway. 

Catra oftens wakes drowsily to find Adora tracing her features with a thumb. Just as often, Catra threads her fingers through Adora’s hair. Marvelling at each other’s realness, the both of them. 

Occasionally, Glimmer teleports in to drop off trays of food. Catra knows that they owe her an explanation of some sort. But for a long time, she doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. She gives them whatever they need—time, space, anything at all. 

Specifically, Glimmer gives them updates on Angella, who is slowly reacclimating to life on Etheria. So far, Angella has learned about the outcome of the war, the battles with Horde Prime, their forays into space, and will soon be taught about their current period of continued peace. 

“So much has changed since she disappeared,” Glimmer sighs. “It’s basically a whole new world.” 

Catra and Adora nod in agreement. 

“Well,” Catra says, “if she could accept the fact that She-Ra married _Force Captain Catra_ ,” Catra grins playfully at her wife, “I think she can handle any other weirdness that’s cropped up since she’s been gone.”

Glimmer chuckles. “That’s probably true.”

They laugh together, for a moment. But soon the laughter fades into a tense awkwardness—one wholly comprised of the fact that Catra and Adora are hiding something from Glimmer, and Glimmer knows it. 

Glimmer lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, brows tugged together with the strain of her concern. 

“And are you two okay?” Glimmer asks, keeping the words cautious and light. Again, trying not to pry—but not quite managing it this time. “You both seem pretty shaken from what happened in there. In the portal.”

Catra and Adora glance at each other, but Catra doesn’t answer. She leaves this to Adora. Adora was the one that Chasm targeted the most. It’s her choice, if she wants to reveal what happened. 

“It’s a really long story,” Adora says, voice small. “And it may not make a lot of sense.”

Glimmer smiles encouragingly. “I’d like to hear it anyway. And I bet Bow would too.”

For a long time, Adora doesn’t reply. She just fixates her eyes on the comforter, meticulously examining every thread—every detail in the fabric. 

And then, finally, Adora nods. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

Adora looks up at Glimmer, her jaw set. Her eyes are stone-solid in their resoluteness, and Catra falls just a bit more in love simply looking at them.

Adora takes a breath, preparing to speak. To explain. 

And Catra knows it can’t be easy, diving back into the past. 

**end**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't leave just yet! There's a surprise epilogue in the next chapter 👀
> 
> (Also tell me what you think of the cover, I made it myself)


	16. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams linger more than they should.

Adora walks down a dark corridor.

It’s darker than she even remembers it. Not glowing faint blue-purple, like most First Ones architectures does. And not glaring a sickly green, like Horde Prime’s virus once caused. 

It’s red. Blood red. There are little veins of it—glowing, but just barely. Throbbing like blood vessels in the dark stone walls. 

Adora keeps walking. She doesn’t know why, doesn’t know where she’s trying to go, or why. But she knows that she needs to keep going—keep pressing onward. That’s what she’s always done, isn’t it? She’s always kept going, no matter the circumstances. No matter the risks. No matter the cost. 

The corridor opens, eventually. Widening into a broad-mouthed chamber. A large cavern, wide as anything Adora has ever seen, save the expanse of space itself. 

And there, suspended at the center of the cavern, is a sight that Adora recognizes. A prism of thrumming, sizzling energy—blazing with a thousand colors and a thousand degrees of temperature somewhere above her. 

The Heart of Etheria. 

But...there’s something _wrong_ with it. As she watches, the Heart’s colors start to diminish. Dulling, dimming. Draining bit by bit before Adora’s eyes. The Heart itself begins to fade into the darkness, wasting away. Degenerating and disintegrating while it’s emptied of its power. 

Adora continues forward, down the platform directly ahead. She’s determined to do something. Letting the Heart fade out like this...it’s _wrong_. Or at least it feels wrong. She knows that she’s the one who’s supposed to destroy it. But this? This is something else. A slow, agonizing death, rather than the explosive, powerful release of magic that Heart deserves. 

By the time she reaches the far end of the platform, the Heart is nearly gone. Just a flickering, sputtering lightbulb hanging overhead. Adora reaches up, as though she might help it. But she can’t. She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t even know what’s wrong. 

And that’s when it goes out—the Heart. Extinguished as quickly as one might snap their fingers. And it’s gone, all of it. Every shred of light. Even the faint red glow from the nearby corridor is now too distant to see. 

Adora is left in the resulting darkness. Helpless. Sightless. Standing at the end of a platform she can no longer see. 

She squints. Strains her ears. But no matter how she tries, she can’t see anything. Can’t hear anything.

Can’t hear anything except…

Is that laugher?

“Oh you sweet, stupid girl,” a voice snarls, whispering directly into Adora’s ear. “You don’t leave until I _say_ you leave.”

And then there are hands. Hands, thrusting against Adora’s back, sending her stumbling forward. Unstoppably forward. Pushing and pushing until she’s too close, too close to the edge that she can no longer see—

“No!” Adora screams, trying to dig her heels into the floor. “Stop!”

But it’s no use. Forward, _forward_ she goes. Stumbling, endlessly, until there’s nothing beneath her feet. Nothing at all. Just open air. 

“And you and I…?” Another laugh. “We’re just getting started.”

And then Adora is falling. Falling away from the platform, away from the voice. Falling in darkness—complete darkness—unable to see _where_ she’s falling to, but she feels it. She feels that horrific, deadly dropping sensation of her stomach, her guts climbing into her throat, strangling her scream—

Adora shoots upright in bed, gasping for air. She tries to inhale the whole room, her breathing is so heavy, so desperate. 

A dream, she assures herself. Just a dream. One like so many others before—a recurring symptom from their little trip to the world between worlds. 

It’s always the same. Chasm’s voice, taunting her. And then a painful fall into some sort of dark abyss.

“Adora,” Catra murmurs. A hand reaches for Adora’s back, palm massaging soothing circles between her shoulder blades. “It’s okay,” Catra tells her, just like so many times before. “It wasn’t real. Chasm is gone.”

Adora nods like she knows. Like she understands. Because she does. She does know—she knows that Chasm is gone, that Adora is free from her grasp. 

So why, in Adora’s dreams, does Chasm always sound so _real_? 

“It’ll be okay, Adora,” Catra says, gently guiding Adora’s shoulders down, back toward the mattress, until she’s once again lying flat. “Just go back to sleep.”

Catra curls up against Adora’s side, dozing off almost immediately, but Adora merely shakes her head. 

Back to sleep...is the very last place Adora wants to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DON'T SKIP OVER THIS PART!! IMPORTANT!!**  
>  So at this point you're probably (hopefully) thinking that Chasm isn't quite done with Adora and Catra—and that she might have some additional tricks up her sleeve. Unfortunately for them, you'd be right.
> 
> The second dark secret of this fic, other than it's not actually time travel...is that it was written with the intention of having a sequel, even from the first outline. There's even foreshadowing of the second book baked into this all over the place, though I won't reveal where.
> 
> However...I know a lot of people wanted this story to have a happy ending after all the angst. And more than that, I likely won't be able to start the sequel right away because 1) I'm in college and have a demanding course load, 2) I wanted to write some less angsty Catradora content for a bit. So if I were to write a sequel, it probably won't be out for several months—and I likely wouldn't even start writing it until December.
> 
> BUT if people do want it—and are willing to wait—I'm not opposed to writing it. The best way to let me know that you want a sequel is to LEAVE A COMMENT, a KUDOS, and/or message me on [tumblr](catra-adoras.tumblr.com)!
> 
> On the other hand, if you don't want a sequel—let me know as well. And we can all pretend that Adora's nightmares are just bad dreams that go away with time and Catradora live happily ever after. But I won't know how to proceed unless you tell me.
> 
> Regardless, thanks so much for reading this far! I really hope you enjoyed! This fic was a lot of fun, but a lot of work, so even if you're neutral on the sequel, PLEASE make sure to leave a comment or a kudos! I cannot stress enough that fanfic writers don't get paid for creating stories, so we rely on your feedback to stay motivated.
> 
> And, last but not least... **make sure to subscribe** to this series on ao3, or follow my [tumblr](catra-adoras.tumblr.com). I'll be posting a halloween catradora fic soon (a period piece involving vampires) and after that, a significantly fluffier multi-chapter story. If you subscribe in some way, you'll get notifications when I post new content (including the sequel, if it happens 😉). 
> 
> **TLDR; Tell me whether you want a sequel, leave a comment and/or kudos if you enjoyed, and subscribe to the series/my tumblr for future writing!**


	17. book two: sneak peek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All should be well for Adora and Catra. They have successfully escaped from that netherworld between dimensions—defeated the cruel magical entity known as Chasm, and returned Angella to her family. And they are together now, back on Etheria. Safe from Chasm in a universe where peace still reigns. 
> 
> But regardless of how she tries, or how Catra attempts to soothe her, Adora cannot shake her unease. Images of Chasm and wounded loved ones continue to torture Adora in vivid nightmares, nightmares that cannot be treated or willed away. Nightmares that force Adora to wonder whether Chasm dealt Adora some kind of lifelong curse, back before her escape from Chasm's dreamworld. 
> 
> And worst of all, even with a dimension of separation between them...Adora cannot quell the fear that Chasm might someday return. Return, and again seek She-Ra's power for herself. 
> 
> The first chapter of _immemorial_ , the sequel to _anachronism_ , will be released on Saturday, January 2nd at ~6:30pm EDT. Read here for a preview!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I spent most of the semester outlining the sequel in depth, and now that it's break, I have been _sprinting_ through this fic. I'm about 40% done—literally writing about 3,000 words a day in what is probably the most ambitious project of my life. Ambitious, in that I'm planning to write all approx. 100,000 words of this fic in a mere FOUR WEEKS of winter break, and edit during the semester. 
> 
> And thanks so much for being patient with me! I'm so glad you all enjoyed the last fic and I'm excited to take you on another plotty fanfic journey. First chapter comes out next week! Same deal—one chapter a week on Saturday evenings. 
> 
> Also, this fic will be pretty different from anachronism. There will be a lot more magic, a lot more space-travel, and a lot more worldbuilding. It's a more complex story for sure, and I hope I do it justice. (But yeah. Still lots of angst. That's non-negotiable. It might even be even darker than the first book, somehow.)
> 
> Now, without further ado...a preview of chapter one!

## a preview of _immemorial_

“—lost three shipments of extremely valuable metal ore. Which, I might add, is the fifth time we’ve had our shipping lanes attacked in the last two lunar cycles.”

Catra’s eyes remain trained on the chair to her left, rather than the screen projected at the center of the round conference table. It’s an empty chair—one that, according to the promises made by its usual occupant, should have been filled an hour ago. 

Still without looking at the portly figure on that screen—namely, ambassador Atric of the Planet Histrion—Catra asks, “Are you sure it’s not just pirates? Recent data shows that there’s been an uptick in independent piracy in your star system.”

“Positive,” Atric says fiercely. “Our security measures are far too advanced for the paltry efforts of pirates. No. This had to be Crion and their advanced weaponry—purposely sabotaging our trade so we’ll have no means to defend ourselves when they attack our people.”

Crion. Histrion’s neighboring planet—and favorite scapegoat. No matter what goes wrong, Histrion always finds a way to blame Crion. And somehow, they always make it Etheria’s problem along the way.

(Or, more specifically, they make it She-Ra’s problem. Which makes it Catra, Glimmer, and Bow’s problem by extension). 

“That’s a very serious accusation to make,” Bow remarks. “There hasn’t been an interplanetary war in over five years.” 

“I’m aware,” says the ambassador—too curtly for Catra’s liking. “But I’m certain it’s inevitable. Crion has been eyeing our territory for centuries—”

“—but they’ve never acted on it,” Glimmer interjects. Her eyebrow raises skeptically at Atric. “And they especially haven’t acted on it during the last two times you contacted us.” 

“Well, no,” says the ambassador somewhat sheepishly. “But like I said, it’s only a matter of time.”

The room descends into awkward silence. Glimmer, Bow, and Catra exchange dubious glances, collectively certain that the ambassador is wrong this time too. Just like all the times before. 

Sure, Histrion and Crion have a long-standing rivalry—but so do a lot of planets in the universe. And Catra has traveled to Crion in the past—met the people there. She doubts they want to be the planet to shatter the first and only period of widespread universal peace.

“I understand your hesitance to believe me,” Atric continues. “But my people are legitimately concerned. We would feel much safer if…”

The ambassador trails off. Catra’s eyes narrow at him, certain that she’s going to hate his suggestion. 

“You’d feel much safer if _what_?”

“If…” the ambassador says slowly, “She-Ra would travel to Histrion and lend her protection to our shipping lanes, for the time being.”

“No,” snaps Catra, instantly. “Out of the question.”

“It would only be for a week or two,” Atric insists. “Not a month, like last time—”

“I said _no_ —”

“It would demonstrate to Crion that She-Ra is on our side and ready to defend us should they continue their devious efforts—”

“It would be a waste of time for everyone,” hisses Catra, crossing her arms as she continues staring at the empty chair adjacent to her own. “Especially for Adora. Which is her _actual_ name.”

“What Catra is trying to say,” Bow interrupts smoothly, “is that Adora is...dealing with some personal matters on Etheria at the moment. And she’s really not in a position to leave on an intergalactic mission right now.”

“From rumors I’ve heard,” Atric says, “She-Ra has not left Etheria in months. How much longer can her ‘personalmatters’ possibly take?”

At this point, Catra’s had just about enough of the ambassador. She reaches forward, prepared to hang up the call—but Glimmer quite literally blocks her hand. Glimmer’s eyes flicker warningly at Catra before they return to the ambassador.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Glimmer asks. “What rumors?”

Atric gives a short huff. “Planetary leaders do talk, you know. And from what I’ve heard, She-Ra has refused nearly every request made of her in the last few months. Everything from charitable appearances, disposal of dangerous magical artifacts, diplomatic affairs.” 

Atric gestures furiously at what Catra can only assume to be his own screen. “Even now, after I was _promised_ a meeting with She-Ra, she’s entirely absent.” 

Atric’s features twist with distaste, and Catra suspects that, through the screen, he’s glaring at _her_ in particular—at Catra, the current obstacle to getting She-Ra’s help. 

Atric adds, “I would much prefer to negotiate with She-Ra myself, rather than…” He spends an obnoxiously long time searching for a correct word, then ultimately settles on, “...her allies?”

“Wife,” Catra says with some outrage—and smugness. “I’m She-Ra’s wife. So you can be confident that my answer will be the same as hers.”

Or at least that would have been consistently true, half a year ago...but now she has her doubts. Catra knows that things have changed. That Adora has changed. 

Atric’s lips settle into a thin line. “I was promised a meeting with She-Ra. And I have little interest in speaking with anyone else.”

“Why?” demands Catra, glaring at Atric through the screen. “So you can try to guilt her into helping y—?”

“Adora is on her way here as we speak,” Bow interrupts loudly. “I take full responsibility for the delay. She was doing me a favor and got caught up on the way back—”

A slight lie, Catra notes, but a harmless one intended to keep the ambassador calm. She knows better than anyone that Adora hasn't been visiting the library as a favor to Bow, but rather, as a symptom of a recent obsession. 

Atric raises an accusing eyebrow. “So She-Ra can do favors for the King of Bright Moon, but not for the entire planet of Histrion?”

_Whoops_ , Catra thinks. That backfired. 

"Well, no. I mean. That’s not what I meant—”

Just as Catra again reaches for the button that will forcibly end the call, she finds herself distracted by a familiar sound—a notification from Glimmer’s tracker pad. One that causes Glimmer’s eyebrows to pull together and a sigh to puff past her lips. 

Catra and Glimmer’s eyes meet readily, and a silent conversation passes between their connected gazes. An annoyed, grumbling one that ends only when Catra jerks her head, motioning for Glimmer to leave the room, and with a small nod, Glimmer obliges—teleporting away in a flash of pink light.

“And what about this?” Catra hears Atric shriek. “The Queen of Bright Moon abandons the meeting as well? How many more insults must I endure—”

“Calm yourself,” Catra snaps. “You want to talk to She-Ra? Then sit tight and be quiet. Glimmer’s fetching her for you right now.”

And sure enough, within the next five seconds, another flash of bright light teleports a small party of new arrivals into the conference room: Cleo, Adora's personal bodyguard. Swift Wind, She-Ra’s steed. And, finally, Adora—the legendary warrior herself—who sways a bit as she’s teleported into place. 

Though Adora doesn’t look like a ‘legendary warrior’ at the moment. Her hair appears half-pulled out of a ponytail, and her clothes are noticeably wrinkled, like she slept in them—which is, of course, an impossibility, given Adora’s circumstances. 

Most noticeable of all are the bruise-dark circles around Adora’s eyes. Bruise-dark, yes, but not bruises at all. If they were bruises, Catra could strike back against whoever inflicted them. But those circles are unmistakable evidence of a far more complicated issue: the persistent sleep problems that have tortured Adora for months. 

There’s a large book folded between Adora’s arms, clutched tightly. Something that she likely took from the library, and will likely add to an ever-growing stack of books in their bedroom.

“H-hi ambassador Atric!” Adora greets too-loudly, waving as she staggers toward her usual chair: the empty one, beside Catra. “Sorry for the delay. I got held up by—”

Her words are interrupted by a yelp. Specifically, Adora’s yelp as she trips over a chair leg and flails toward the ground. Luck and cat-like reflexes are all that save Adora, as Catra barely manages to grab onto Adora's sleeve in time. Her grasp suspends Adora enough to keep her from hitting the floor. 

Though Catra doesn’t manage to rescue the book. It falls, clattering loudly—causing Adora to jump visibly at the sound. Briefly, Catra peers at the title and reads, _The Symbolic Artistry of the First Ones_. 

Yup, Catra thinks. Definitely another one for the pile. 

Adora huffs out, “Sorry,” then scrambles to her feet—tearing her sleeve out of Catra’s grip in the process. She scoops the book off the floor like it’s a valued treasure that she’s dropped, rather than a dusty old tome. 

Catra raises an eyebrow, watching as Adora flops into her chair and neatly folds both hands on the table in front of her, the book placed face-down at her side. It’s an attempt to appear calm and put-together, Catra is sure. But the trembling of Adora’s hands reveals otherwise.

Adora turns to the projection of Ambassador Atric. Her smile is brittle.

“Now,” Adora says, all forced interest. “What did you want to talk about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> definitely come tell me what you think here or on my tumblr! i need motivation as I try to squeeze out a near-impossible word count

**Author's Note:**

> [my catradora playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2xJ0ALXyFYhEngYsafWiy3?si=xZpMNyhIQxWDAkAC5UbKzQ) (songs are organized by the events in the series).  
> [my tumblr](https://catra-adoras.tumblr.com/)  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/chellethewriter)
> 
> Also—please consider helping a **[BLM-related cause](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/)**


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